


Recreational Hazards

by dawittiest



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (mostly in a 'dangerous sex' sort of way), Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Sexual Abuse, Consent Issues, Dark, Kink, Mental Health Issues, Misogyny, Multi, Rape Aftermath, Self-Harm, Sexual Violence, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Unsafe Sex, Victim Blaming, children engaging with inappropriate explicit content, internalized victim-blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-05-26 01:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14989814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawittiest/pseuds/dawittiest
Summary: Matt builds a life from the ashes of his old one and reacquaints himself with being alone. But there’s no rest for the wicked in Hell’s Kitchen and Daredevil is faced with a new threat – a brutal rapist is in their midst and it’s up to Matt to stop him. What can go wrong?All flavors of darkfic. Blanket warning for graphic rape and all the consent and mental health issues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically an excuse for me to write a plot-driven treatise on rape, kink, and darkfic. Kinda based on a prompt I left on Daredevil kinkmeme a while back, except now it has a plot and like a million characters. Oops.
> 
> Post-S2 divergent, with lots of gratuitous comics characters appearances. Also, almost no Foggy. Sorry.
> 
> Takes place in the same universe as [Devil in Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13515024) and [Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666005). You don’t need to read them to follow this story but I strongly encourage you do, so you can ~~feed me comments~~ get a feel of the general mood of it. If nothing else, it’s a great prelude to this story.
> 
>  
> 
> BIGGEST thanks for DancingPlague! You’re the best beta (alpha, really) and always an invaluable help<3

It begins like this:

He has the upper hand and then he doesn’t. He miscalculates, slips an inch on wet asphalt and it’s all it takes – the man overpowers him, his corded bulk pulls heavier on Matt’s shoulders than it had just a moment before; Matt’s knees hit the ground, hard. He tries to do damage control but it’s useless; he’s scrambling blind, for the first time in a long while utterly helpless. It feels like Fisk, trying and failing to gain traction against sheer power. Matt writhes, searches for an opening but there isn’t any. The man – big and calm, his heart rate even, and smelling of nothing other than the rain – is not even straining. Matt’s just a game to him.

Then a faint scent rises over the mud-salt rain. Oddly hollow, clinical, without the undertone of sweat, so it takes a beat for Matt to place it – but when he does, there’s no mistaking it. Arousal. Not the excitement of a fight – Matt knows that intimately – but the promise of something more… sinister.

The script flips on him with a blink of realization. No, Matt thinks. This is not how this goes. This is not the role he ought to play. These are not the rules so it shouldn’t be happening, but it is happening so there are no more rules. He’s been cast out to fend for himself in the world that doesn’t make sense anymore; all he has left of what’s known is paralyzing fear.

The zipper growls. Matt’s violently jerked back to the reality. The sickening smell lodges in his throat, choking. _No_. This is not happening, he won’t go down like this, no no no no no, God, please, _no_ —

Matt tries to shake his head, but the man has his jaw locked. He tries desperately to crawl back, but he’s pressed to the spot. He tries then to howl, but he can’t make noise. He can only kneel on dirty, wet ground and silently witness it happening to him.

_Please, God, don’t let anyone see._

 

 

 

Actually, it begins like this:

Matt waits with the blanket pulled over his chin all through the droning noises, Grandma being relocated to the master bedroom for the night, creaking voices and shuffling on carpet, waits through the click of the kitchen vent window, Dad putting out his last cigarette at the end of the day, waits through the lights going out one by one like matches, and then waits some more. The house breathes different at night, when all are asleep; it’s in the cadence of the silences, in the way his mind blurs with the darkness surrounding and zeroes in on every hum with laser focus. This is Matt’s favorite time – the night exists outside of the normal world, where there’s only him and the infinite cosmos.

When he’s sure everyone’s firmly sleeping, Matt throws back his covers and tiptoes out of his room, wincing at the screeching door. They’re hard sleepers, Grandma and Dad – Grandma because of her sleeping pills she takes and Dad says he was always like this, ever since he was a baby, the moment his head hits the pillow he’s out like a light, dead to the world and no might can wake him till dawn. Matt has learned it again and again, crawling into Dad’s bed, sick and moaning like a hurt animal, and no matter how he cried, Dad would wake well-rested in the morning to his bed-pillow drenched cool with tears. Not like Matt. He used to wish he took after Dad when he was little, when Dad would be lulled to sleep with another bedtime story and Matt would be unsatisfied and wide awake. But then he wouldn’t know those electric moments when the whole world was asleep but him, and so he learned to live with it.

He stops under Grandma’s door, head tilted to listen; Grandpa is flighty, wandering the house at odd hours of night, like Matt, unable to keep asleep. But no wood panel creaks, no stiff feet disrupt the heavy dust-air. He’s safe for now; and, if Grandpa does wake, he won’t say a thing, he never does. He’ll just stand there, looking at Matt for a moment, and shuffle away. It makes something squeeze uneasily in his belly when he does that, but he won’t be disturbed.

Matt creeps like a flannel-clad ghost to the living room; the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle red and blue, as if winking at him conspiratorially. It’s not much of a Christmas tree, like it isn’t much of a Christmas – crooked plastic midget, just as well for the wet, miserable weather. Matt got a basketball ball from Dad – to encourage him to “play with other children”, _like normal boys do_ echoing in the air, no matter that Matt’s too short to aim to the basket and neighborhood kids would rather dunk Matt into it than play with him – and Grandma gave him a _scarf_. An ugly thing too, barf-brown. But that’s okay, that’s not really why he looks forward to Christmas every year – no matter poor presents, no matter gross traditional dishes he’s expected to try at least once, no matter staying at Grandma’s house for a week and putting up with her prodding questions and comments. Matt loves Christmas despite all that; because Christmas means _tee-vee_.

Not just any tee-vee. It’s not their spent old thing, that cuts off mid-cartoon when there’s a storm and two of four channels are always snowing. Grandma’s tee-vee is _big_ ; so big that Matt sometimes thinks he can see the pictures better than in real life. And it doesn’t have only one cartoon channel too – it has _five_ kids channels and all the other ones he doesn’t know how many. It has a cinema channel, dedicated only to movies – all the movies, the new ones that just came out and the old ones that are so old that even Dad wasn’t alive when they played; animated movies and foreign movies with funny voices, and every day there’s a new movie, not just the same few it repeats. And, this is the best: at night, it shows _adult_ movies.

The first time Matt discovered it was three Christmases back. He sneaked out, after Dad put him to bed, to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles that Dad hadn’t let him stay for even when he begged him. There wasn’t Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, though; there wasn’t any cartoons at all. Matt didn’t know a tee-vee channel could have a break. In his mind, cartoons played non-stop and he was just missing them all, twisting in bed instead of sleeping.

He was gonna go back to bed, trying to swallow the burning disappointment in his throat (and maybe tears, too – he cried sometimes when he was disappointed which was stupid and baby-ish, and it only made him wanna cry more). But Matt wasn’t ready to let go of his rebellious adventure yet, so he lingered. The cartoon channel was showing a movie instead; the _weirdest_ thing, it wasn’t even animated. It was just a boring grown-up movie. Matt couldn’t believe he sneaked out of bed for this. That is, until he heard _it_.

“Tell your whore girlfriend that if she wants more of the shit, she gotta stop fucking around. Do you bitches think I run a motherfucking charity here? Tell her this, next time she shows her mug here without my money, _all_ my money, and I’ll fuck her up so she won’t ever suck a cock again, yeah? Now fuck off.”

Matt froze up with his gape half-stretched from a yawn. He didn’t know much then, being he was a baby, but he knew those were _swears_. Lots of them. He didn’t get all that, but it didn’t matter; this was an adult world, something Dad wouldn’t let him steal a glimpse of, and Matt was going to gulp down every last bit of it.

There was a lot of swears and there was blood, too – the whore did show her mug back there and the man cut her up so bad that her face didn’t look like a face no more, but a lobe-y, horror creature. Then her girlfriend from before came back for more shit, for herself this time, and she didn’t have all the money either, but the man let her pay him another way that Matt didn’t quite get. She kneeled before him and moved her head back and forth while the man pulled on her hair and swore some more. Matt wasn’t sure but he thought it had something to do with sex; he thought you have to lie naked in a bed to have sex but maybe not. And the whore girlfriend got the shit, even though they didn’t say what was this shit everyone wanted, but she died later too. John, who was also called Billy for some reason, shot her in the head. He dumped her in the trash where she lay like a broken mannequin, except her brain gunk was dripping down her forehead and her silver skirt was hitched up exposing her lady parts. They looked like wrinkled ash-brown leather flaps and Matt looked at it for a moment and then turned away with disgust.

His eyelids stuck together to the sound of gunshots and then he jerked up and it was already dawning outside even though it felt like he just closed his eyes for a second. The tee-vee was playing cartoons again – DuckTales – and Matt flicked it off with his heart in his throat and dashed like a cat to the bed and under the covers, and moments later Grandma started calling Grandpa out in her creaky voice. He thought Grandpa must have seen him dozing off in front of the tee-vee for sure; Matt observed him keenly all through the breakfast, his belly flipping every time Grandpa opened his mouth to take a bite. Matt’s eyes felt rubbed raw and his muscles ached like some malicious elves beat him up in the night but it was just sleeplessness, but it was worth it, because Matt had a _secret_. More than that, he experienced a little part of the adult world and he was going to do it _again_.

Matt flicks the tee-vee on and scoots closer so he can hear the voices turned down whisper-quiet. He sees the depths of a jungle and dirt-smeared men wading through the wilderness weighted down with guns and some unspeakable grief. A war movie; Matt doesn’t like war movies, they always are the same and stretch on long and long, and there’s only bombs and men smoking and talking and nothing else. He switches the channel. A pretty, blonde lady is pouring a drink and then she turns around – a man, leaning on a handrail. They start talking and it’s a bit boring ( _Would you like me to go, No, stay_ ), but sometimes adult movies are boring at first so Matt waits.

The man shrugs off his jacket, leans over the lady so she’s backed against the wall. They kiss for a moment, lady’s lips mushed against his an ugly, twisted sight and when they part the lady says, _Please leave me_.

He shakes his head and gathers her in his arms kissing her again, and the lady thrashes in his arms like a fish. She tears back from him after a while, _GET OUT!_

 _Slap!_ The lady hits the man in the face. Matt sits up straighter; this is good. _Thwack_ , harder – the man punches her and she goes down on a couch like a toppled doll. Matt digs his fingernails into the skin above his ankles, bites down on his inner cheek. The man touches her face then, gently; she shudders from his touch, backs away until she hits the wall. The man says, _Please_ , and she shivers trapped in a corner and this is when Matt knows this will be good.

She shoves away his hand and slaps him again, but Matt knows she won’t escape; the man grabs a fistful of her beautiful blonde hair and twists, bringing her to her knees, only a choked, painful sound coming out of her mouth. He drags her by her hair across the floor – she’s whining now, _no_ caught halfway to a sob – and Matt jumps when he slaps her, hard. He tears her blue coat right off her and she keeps whining, falls back against his chest like a limp fish. Matt thinks if she really wanted, she could’ve gotten away. He tightens his grip; _he_ would’ve gotten away. She lets herself be pushed on the couch, her chest rising and falling wildly. The man sits down next to her, he’s taking his time, telegraphing his every movement, and she just looks at him dumbly. _Why is she not getting away?_ Matt thinks, but he knows that she won’t and he knows that he doesn’t want her to either.

The man cups her face, gentle, so gentle, and leans down to kiss her, and that’s where she finds her fight again, but it’s useless. _She’s_ useless, shaking her head, _no, please, no_ , when she should be screaming and struggling if she really doesn’t want it that much. The man rips her shirt off and she’s whimpering but not really fighting, trying to cover up her spilling batter-like tits. She shouts then, _no no_ no, but when the man kisses her she cradles his head like it’s something precious. He kisses down her flabby chest then sits back; she crosses her arms over her breasts and just lies there like a dumb log.

Snap, goes her underwear. She puts up some token protest but it’s vapid and lifeless. She’s already given in.

She lets out a breathless cry when the man falls down on her and there’s something satisfying in that. Something warm and thrilling low in his belly. The man touches the top of her head, rolls his hips against her body and Matt knows – this is sex. He’s not sure how it works, man writhing on woman or grabbing a handful of hair and holding her down, but he’s learned sex is something you just recognize when you see it. Matt’s blood is pumping in time with her breathy gasps; the man rocks on her, leisurely, presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Then she’s not whining anymore. Matt shifts, the warm feeling in his stomach creeping up his neck. She’s moaning.

The man looks down on her and she looks up, meeting his eyes. She raises her hands, slowly, and then with purpose, palms his face and pulls him down so they kiss. Her head rolls to the side and she sighs, small and blissful, and Matt shifts again.

The man presses his mouth to her cheek and whispers, _I’m sorry_. The lady’s face contorts like she’s about to cry and she whines, _Hold me_.

Matt lets out a breath, the tight feeling in his belly on the verge of unfolding. They’re lying together now; the music changes, like something flipped. The man looks up over the lady’s head, a flash of an eye, and meets the barrel of a gun.

A man, another man, scrappier and dark-haired, a mean, malicious smirk, is holding a rifle on him. Scrappy jerks his rifle, _get off_ , but the man shakes his head. For a moment they share a look, a rifle and an unknowing girl between them. Then the man rolls upwards on top of the lady, covers her with his body, covers her sight. Scrappy walks around to them slowly, sets down his gun and slips off his jacket. Matt wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and grips them again. The lady’s lying on her stomach, smiling softly; Scrappy jerks down his zipper. He sits behind her on the couch and that’s when she notices something; she twists her head to look around even as the other man holds down her neck, a soft _no_ on her lips. Scrappy thrusts against her and she shrieks _NO_.

NO _NO_ NO _OH_ she won’t stop screaming, her face twisting grotesquely. Matt bites down on his lip, hard, anxious if anyone woke up, if anyone’s coming but unwilling to tear himself off the scene in front of him. She whimpers as the men have her pinned down, sweat dripping down her face, sweat mixed with tears maybe, and Matt can almost smell it, can almost feel the sting on her cheeks. Scrappy’s face grimaces, ugly, and for a moment she looks like she’s choking. The man has his hands around her neck and Matt wonders if he _is_ choking her, if it’s that kind of movie, but then her breath hitches and Scrappy backs away, and she lies there, whimpering and sweat-soaked but alive.

Her matted hair sticks to her face; she makes no move to brush it away. When she looks up, the man still standing over her, her eyes are unseeing and her lips quiver around some animal sound.

Matt’s pants are wet. He jumps up, winces when the material sticks to his legs, and flicks off the tee-vee, fleeing to bed before anyone sees him here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby Matt watches the infamous scene from _Straw Dogs_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for rape of a child in this chapter. It’s not overtly graphic but the situation is made very apparent. It’s the last scene so if you want to skip it, stop reading after “Crying.” It doesn’t have a lot of impact on the plot.

Matt slides back into the rhythm of being alone.

They say you never forget how to ride a bike. Matt wouldn’t know, his Dad never had the money for something as extravagant as a bike when he was growing up, and after the accident it felt pointless to learn it. But he knows how to be alone; he got out of practice these past few years, grew fat with affection and complacent. Let himself, just for a moment, forget. But you can never escape your roots – he has loneliness under his nails, a dirt you can’t get out, his bones grown shaped around absences. He was terrible at people anyway; like a beaten dog, he didn’t know how to relearn kindness, didn’t know to fit them into his life instead of fitting his life around them, not letting the two touch. Every moment he was with someone he was being alone. He’s never learned as a child how to exist alongside other people not just as distant ships passing him by and just like speech, this is something you can’t learn in adulthood. A window has been missed. He learned to mimic people instead, stealing a turn of phrase or a cadence of laugh carefully so they don’t notice, a patchwork of mismatched human scraps – but with every act, even a good act, there’s something lacking, something you can’t put your finger on, but just know it’s _off_.

This is better.

There’s no more needless noise. No more distractions. He walks alone down the street and there’s no unnecessary hand on his elbow steering his way, no chatter in his ear to dull out the sounds of his city breathing, taps of million feet and voices carrying all making up an elaborate symphony he knows so well that he can hear one note out of tune. He doesn’t miss a cry for help and doesn’t have to spin guilty excuses now there’s nothing to divert his focus.

Now there’s nothing to tug on the strings of his heart.

He doesn’t dwell on the past – what’s done is done and life is a series of bargaining with your losses anyway. He knows how to turn blows into strength. He throws away his old college jerseys he should’ve gotten rid of years ago, picks up methodically lone stockings and iris-scented blouses from under his couch and the back of his dresser, a lopsided baseball ball, a chirped mug with a lipstick smell-stain he could never wash out, printed papers that slipped between his braille documents he forgot to give back and that are long immaterial, all this junk he let collect in his apartment over months. He puts it all into plastic trash bags, three of them, and one by one throws them on the curb. Tap, tap, tap, there goes every last one of his sentimental hang-ups. It’s – _empty_ – freeing.

 

The office is louder now.

His old office – no point in looking for a new place when it’s already there. It’s too much space when it’s just him and every vacant corner is filled with noises spilling in from outside. It’s good practice, anyway, working his way through a tangled litigation case while keeping an ear on what’s the mood on the streets. He needs to get better at multitasking. This, after all, is not his _real_ job.

Real job or not, beating on criminals in the night doesn’t exactly pay. And keeping up a law practice – a solo practice, that you only care about in your spare time – afloat is time-consuming. He had to take out of his own pocket to make the ends meet last month; thousand dollars, a little less. He has that money, thanks to—he has money to spare now, but in New York, money runs out quicker than water. Matt’s not used to carrying the sole load himself. It’s awful, he knows it is even as he thinks that, but he needs someone to do the grunt work so he can focus on what really matters.

Matt loses his thread again. Something, something, unlawful seizure of property, something, something, violation of civil rights. He doesn’t even know what the plaintiff’s name is. Matt sighs and starts over. The rusty old elevator rattles up, drilling between his thoughts. His building or the one over? When he focuses, Matt can feel the vibrations going up his leg from the ground. His, then.

The elevator grinds, metal on rusty metal, and comes to a stop with a thud. His floor. Matt cocks his head. The doors open noisily; he waits for steps but instead Matt hears rubber wheels slide on tile. Huh. The wheels stutter before his office and then comes a reluctant knock.

“Come on in,” Matt calls.

Whine of hinges and the person wheels themselves into the room. A woman, more or less Matt’s age, ylang-ylang perfume that sits pleasantly on her skin; she’s wearing a pressed shirt, cotton rubbing tightly on her wrists and crinkling over a form-fitting skirt that starts in the waist. A client or…?

“Is this an office of Mr. Murdock?” the woman asks; a nice, matter-of-fact voice. She sounds professional.

“That’s what they tell me,” Matt says, curling his lips slightly. “How may I help you?”

“Well,” she starts, still hovering near the door.

“Come on in, please… uh,” Matt trails off clumsily. Something tells him the woman’s smiling tersely.

“You were about to offer me a seat, weren’t you?” Matt fidgets with his glasses sheepishly.

“Yeah,” he admits, letting out a little self-deprecating laugh. “I’m—”

“It happens,” she says, reasonable but not indulging; Matt likes her already. “I’m used to it.”

“Still, I—please.” Matt jumps up and walks around his desk to move the chair in front of it aside; he’d offer to show her to the conference room – Lord knows it stood useless and empty long enough – but he’s afraid there’s even less, um, leg room there. The woman wheels herself to the desk.

Matt sits on the opposite side.

“What brings you here, Ms.—”

“Blake,” she fills in helpfully. “Becky Blake.”

“How may I help you then, Ms. Blake?” Matt asks, smiling at her encouragingly.

Her temperature and heartbeat stay unmoved. Matt’s smile slips a little. He must be looking even more haggard than he thought.

Becky pauses.

“Are you aware that we’re sitting in near dark?”

Matt blinks and then has to physically stop himself from slapping his forehead; he settles on a sigh-y _emhmh_ , a compromise.

“Uh… Right, I’m sorry about it, I… Uh, my partner, he used to remind me of those things, as I’m settling into a solo practice it seemed to have… slipped my attention.”

A beat. Then it hits her and with it a wave of embarrassed warmth.

“Oh, I—I apologize…”

“No worries.” Matt shoots her a little sly smile. “It happens.”

“Right.” Becky straightens in her wheelchair, seems to gather herself again. “I’m here because of the job vacancy listing.”

Matt blinks at her.

“Unless you’ve found someone for the position.” The moment she finished saying it, Matt can tell she knows he hadn’t. No one works for a guy in a grubby office with no lights.

“No, ah, I’m still in the process of interviewing candidates,” Matt says. He wonders if this much bullshit shows on his face.

Becky nods her head, taking his obvious posturing in stride. She rummages in her bag and leans over to hand him a stack of paper.

“My C.V. I haven’t prepared…”

“That’s alright, I’ll scan and review it later,” Matt says, taking it from her. He suddenly wishes for someone to lean over his shoulder to glance at it and forcefully shoves that thought down. He places the stack of documents at the corner of his desk with care. “So, Ms. Blake, why do you want to work at N—my humble practice.”

“For reasons not unlike yourself, I imagine.” Matt inclines his head quizzically. “Per my C.V., I used to work at Price & Peyton…”

Matt touches the document and drops his hand. “That’s impressive.”

“Yeah, I hear you used to intern at Landman & Zack.” Matt blinks. He can hear a smile in Becky’s voice. “I’ve done my homework. They offered you a position immediately out of college, but you refused, instead of opting to start your own practice. Well, Mr. Murdock, I said yes to my Landman & Zack. And I think… I think I know why you chose what you did.”

“I see,” Matt says leaning back behind the desk.

Becky touches her hair briefly – he thinks it’s in a braid or something – and puts her hand back on her lap.

“Working for a big-name firm… in some respects, it was exactly how I imagined. But there was another thing I used to imagine, back when I was still a rosy-cheeked undergrad with my nose buried in the works of Ruth Bader Ginsburg.” A soft smile curls around her words. “I used to dream of making a difference. Give back to the community. I told myself,” a bitter note creeps into her voice, “that I was gonna change the system from the inside. You know, help the little guy from up in my high castle.”

“On our way to work in our Bentleys,” Matt echoes.

“Exactly,” Becky says emphatically. “So I quit. And now I’m here.”

“If I may be blunt,” Matt starts. “That still doesn’t explain what brings you _here_.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Pensive.

“The Punisher trial,” she finally says.

Matt stifles a groan in his throat.

“That,” he says, choked. “Right. That was—”

“Messy,” Becky inputs. Matt laughs a little incredulously.

“That’s an understatement,” he says wryly. “Why is _that_ the reason you came?”

“It went how it went,” Becky says diplomatically; Matt thinks she’s being rather generous. “But the sole fact that you decided to do it… the sheer— _daring_ of going against the D.A.—” Becky’s voice takes on a spirited, oddly familiar tone he can’t quite place, “the winning case they had… the willingness to look beyond easy answers… I don’t know, I just thought… this is who I wanna work with.”

Matt bursts out into a surprised laugh.

“Then I think you may be even crazier than me,” he says honestly. “It’s—don’t worry, it’s a good quality.”

“Is that right?” Becky murmurs.

“Well, it is in my book,” Matt says. “It means you think outside the box. And if your credentials check out…”

“So I can count on a return call?” Becky finishes. She’s definitely smiling now.

Matt smiles at her back. “Absolutely. It was a real pleasure meeting you, Ms. Blake.”

“Well, that’s my cue if I ever heard one,” Becky says good-humoredly. “It was… very interesting meeting you too, Mr. Murdock.”

“I’m just gonna assume it’s a compliment,” Matt quips. “Don’t correct me if I’m misreading, please.”

Becky laughs, belly-deep, pleasant sound. Matt’s smile stretches a bit too wide. It’s been long since he made someone laugh.

“I won’t, then,” she says and wheels out of his office, leaving the echoing thrum of her voice and a ylang-ylang mist behind her.

Matt sits there for a moment dumbly. He’s gotta remember to buy light bulbs for tomorrow. _Sigh_. The doors to the elevator grumble open with a ding and Becky wheels herself inside. Matt frowns and then he jumps up and barely remembers to grab his cane before skidding to the elevator. He slaps the button a second before the elevator bangs closed.

“Ms. Blake,” he says, a little out of breath. Becky raises her head up at him inscrutably.

“…yeah?”

“Welcome to the team,” he says with a slight smile. “How does tomorrow sound?”

 

*

 

One loose thread refuses to let him go.

Matt had thought he’d successfully cut things off between them, but sadly he doesn’t have a monopoly on persistence. It nags him like a thorn in his side – he wanted a clean slate and this disrupts the picture. He doesn’t need leftover attachments holding him back.

Still, something makes him walk into the diner on the corner of 51st street, point five. The aroma of stale coffee-sludge and week-old fruitcake is overwhelming but it’s neutral ground, at least. Matt catches her floral scent with a whiff of whiskey where he expects to find it, already waiting for him.

“Catch any purse-snatchers today?” Karen says wryly in lieu of a greeting.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Matt answers flatly and Karen snorts out a breath, not really a laugh but not _not_.

He slides into the booth across her in the corner, their usual place because of the privacy. They have a _usual_ place; he doesn’t know what to do with that. Mostly, he tries not to think about it.

“So, you called,” Matt prompts after a moment when neither of them speaks.

“Wow,” Karen chuckles, the way she does when she wants to punch you. “Not even, ‘hey, how you’ve been, how’s your new job going after the old one blew up in your face?’”

“We’re not _friends_ ,” Matt says, hating how he sounds like a miserable child. But Karen laughs again, only seeing it as coldness.

“Yeah, you’re right,” she says tersely. “We’re not.”

They sit at pat for a moment, Karen’s pump tapping anxiously on the table leg and abruptly stopping.

“You’re not even going to ask, are you?” she says, rushed as if she was holding it back for a while.

“Ask about what,” Matt says, flat.

“He’s good, you know,” she says, tone brittle like she’s about to burst into tears or snap. “Fancy lawyer man thing suits him. He cut his hair,” she says around an odd smile. “And he clearly fucking misses you too—”

“Why are you telling me this,” Matt interrupts her.

“I can’t _believe_ you,” Karen hisses hotly, “you’ve been best friends for years, are you just going to toss it away like it meant nothing—”

“Have you just called me here to insult me or is there something else,” Matt gets out, biting down on his cheek.

“Insult _you_?” Karen repeats, incredulous. “I think I’ve been very fucking understanding, under the circumstances, and I’m _trying_ to reach out to you but you’re being a real asshole, Matt.”

“I didn’t ask you for this,” Matt quickly interjects. “I never asked—I don’t need your help, or whatever this is…” _I don’t need_ you, Matt thinks petulantly.

“Christ, Matt,” Karen says, breath hitching. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe _caring_ is not a personal attack on you? Jesus.”

They don’t move for a moment, Karen glaring daggers at him and Matt sweltering under her burning anger. It rubs him the wrong way somehow, her _concern_. He thinks that just because she cares about him, it doesn’t mean she has a claim on him. It’s not right. But he doesn’t know how to put this uneasy feeling into words so he drops his shoulders in defeat.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly and Karen slowly relaxes.

“Yeah,” she says, dull, then takes a businesslike breath and seems to gather herself.

“Anyway, there is a reason I called you.”

“Oh?” Matt hums.

“Y’know, working at a newspaper is not what it’s cracked up to be and yeah, I gotta do dumb fluff pieces most of the time, but sometimes Ellison lets me do the crime beat and, well,” Karen stumbles a little, warming on the face; it’s this abashed enthusiasm that endeared her to Matt in the first place and something prickles in his heart hearing it now. “I just thought, with all those unsolved crimes I report and everything, we could—work together, maybe. Compare notes.”

Matt quirks his eyebrow.

“You mean, Karen Page, journalist, and Matt Murdock, attorney,” he says, “or—”

Karen huffs, exasperated.

“You _know_ what I mean.”

Matt leans back on his elbows, appraising her.

“I thought you didn’t approve of my proclivities.”

“What gave you that idea,” Karen counters.

“Well,” now Matt stutters a little. He closes his mouth and considers this.

He wants to say that the way she reacted to his little Christmas revelation was pretty telling but. Her being angry was understandable, expected even. ( _I knew._ Since when? _Since the warehouse. Maybe—maybe even before. I don’t know, I suspected that_ maybe _for a while, but I thought, you would’ve told it if it were the truth, you know? Or—maybe I knew, deep down. I just didn’t want to believe it.)_ But then Karen asked questions, not guilt-trips formulated as questions but real questions, and she _listened_. And she’s always been Daredevil’s vocal champion. It’s just Matt Murdock she had issues with.

“Fair enough,” he finally says. “So what’d you got?”

Karen shifts closer, her heartbeat picking up slightly; this is her element.

“A couple of robberies,” she says. “All between two and four am, in all cases the victims were elderly, living alone. Perp climbed on the fire escape and picked the window lock. The police hasn’t connected them yet, but—”

“You have,” Matt supplies. Karen shrugs.

“Well, it is pretty obvious.” She looks down and shuffles some pages and that’s when Matt realizes she made notes. “There’s also a flasher targeting kids hanging out at Central Park after dark and—this one’s interesting.”

“What is?”

“Rape-murder,” Karen says. “But it’s. _Weird_.”

Matt frowns, his stomach twisting in an uneasy knot.

“Gruesome-weird? Because I don’t think that it counts as out of ordinary at this point…”

“I mean, the crime scene reads like a typical rape – woman’s body, uh… Jean DeWolff, was dumped in a trash in an alley, ligature marks on wrists and ankles, cause of death strangulation, yada, yada, yada,” Karen intones. “But here’s the kicker – the victim made arrangements with her killer on social media to _rape her_.”

“That’s,” Matt starts. “How does that even work.”

Karen shrugs.

“Well, not rape-rape her, like a rape fantasy, right? It can be exciting, you know, pretending to be at someone’s total mercy,” she says matter-of-factly. Matt shifts, uncomfortable. “Except it turned out way too real.”

“The dangers of social media?” Matt deadpans.

“Ha.”

“How do you know all this,” Matt asks suddenly. “I don’t think the police would release those details to public.”

“They didn’t,” Karen admits. “I have—a source on the force.”

“A source?” Matt repeats, raising his eyebrows.

Karen twirls on a strand of her hair, heating up.

“I might have—stopped at the station to eavesdrop. A little.” Matt opens his mouth but Karen rushes out first, “And before you say something, you don’t really have a moral high ground here, Mr. _I Am The Night_.” Matt closes his mouth.

“Point taken.”

“It is interesting though,” Karen picks up. “The only similar case I can think of is that German guy, what was his name—”

“Armin Meiwes,” Matt supplies.

“Right. I keep going back to that name, ringer, what can it mean…”

“I’m sorry?” Matt says.

“Oh, right. That’s his online handle,” Karen explains. “Ringer, like dead ringer? I think. Stylized as ring3r, you know, with three standing for e. I wonder if there’s a hidden message in there…”

“Maybe it’s just a random string of letters and numbers,” Matt suggests wryly.

“Maybe,” Karen says without conviction. “But I think it’s worth looking into. Sometimes the devil is in the details, you know,” she says pointedly. “It’s a starting point, at least.”

“Karen,” Matt says abruptly.

Karen raises her head up from her notes distractedly. “Mhm?”

“You know, this is not exactly what I’m in the habit of doing,” he says carefully, reasonably. “Investigating crime.”

Karen stills, her body stiffening attentively. “What do you mean,” she says. “You prevent crime all the time.”

“No, I _stop_ crime,” Matt corrects. “I, I break up assaults, I help people in immediate danger. There’s a difference.”

“What about Fisk,” Karen says, a shadow of something like betrayal in her voice. “You did more than just break up individual fights.”

“That’s different,” Matt immediately says. “Someone was terrorizing my city and fighting off grunts wasn’t doing anything. There were just—new dangers, new grunts to fight off popping up and it wouldn’t stop until I got to the man behind it all. I had to stop the violence at its root.”

“Yes, but you didn’t just fight Fisk with your fists,” Karen says urgently. “You _helped me_ , you—okay, beat the crap out of some bad people,” Matt snorts, “but to get _information_ ,” Karen adds with emphasis, “you followed the money and uncovered corruption, and racketeering, and conspiracy that reached far beyond crooks terrorizing the streets. You looked at the big picture.”

“Karen, I can’t investigate every single crime that’s yet unsolved. That’s up to the police and frankly, they’re more equipped to do it than me. Let just the police do their job.”

“This guy,” Karen starts in her breathless voice that means she refuses to let go. “Raped, brutally beat up a woman and strangled her to death. He dumped her butchered body in trash right in your backyard. And he is not going to stop.”

“You don’t know that,” Matt says, shaking his head.

“Yes I do,” Karen exhales with disbelief. “He’s raped and he’s going to rape again. Unless someone stops him.”

“Why me,” Matt asks.

“Because you’re the protector of Hell’s Kitchen,” Karen stresses. “Or at least you pretend to be.” She shakes her head. “You know what, we wouldn’t even have this conversation if this guy was targeting little boys—

“You’re saying that I’m biased—” Matt protests.

“Aren’t you,” Karen says flatly.

“That’s not fair,” Matt says.

“Then prove me wrong,” Karen says, a challenge.

Matt lets out a small exhale and runs his hand through his hair shortly.

“Are you trying to manipulate me, Ms. Page?”

“Maybe,” Karen says innocently. “Is it working?”

Matt can’t help but laugh breathlessly.

“I—hah. I’ll look into it,” he concedes. “But I’m not promising anything,” he adds.

Karen perks up.

“Great! You know, I was thinking, there’s no way this guy is a first-timer. There’s gotta be a history of violence there, an escalation. I’ll try and dig up some old rape cases in which the perp was especially brutal, maybe see if there are similarities with other open rape-murders in different boroughs…”

“You have it all figured out, don’t you?” Matt says, raising his eyebrows with humor.

Karen ducks her face, a wave of warmth hitting her cheeks.

“I gave it a lot of thought,” she says abashedly, combing her hair behind her ears. “I think it’s important,” she says in a small, serious voice.

Matt stays quiet for a moment, not sure what to say.

“Right,” Karen picks up, her familiar curious enthusiasm flooding back to her voice. “I’ll check the old newspaper archives, look for reported crimes that may fit our guy, but I doubt the cops shared intimate details of the crime scenes that might be important. I suppose you’re not up to raiding police files in your fetish suit for the greater good?” she asks, a joke but not a joke too.

“Karen—” Matt sighs.

“Never mind, I’ll just cash in a favor from Glori,” Karen says quickly. “Uh, Glori, Glorianna O’Breen? She’s a new photo reporter at the Bulletin. She used to be a forensic photographer. A little gruesome but Glori says she didn’t mind. Actually, she told me this is why she left – one of her last crime scenes was a suicide-murder, a guy killed his entire family with a machete and then took off his head with a shotgun. She took intimate photos of a five-year-old girl whose head was half severed from her body and then she went on a lunch break and had a rare steak and she didn’t even blink. That’s when she knew she had to quit. Glori said she couldn’t let herself get so desensitized. Anyway,” Karen breaks up abruptly. “I don’t know if she’s kept archives but she told me once she remembers every photo she’s ever taken. I’ll owe her big time for this but I think I’ll be able to persuade her. I’ll get back to you with my findings in a couple days.”

“So, I can reasonably expect this is a thing that we’ll keep on doing,” Matt says wryly.

“You bet,” Karen says with a live spark in her voice. “You and me, we got work to do.”

 

*

 

Matt perches on a building ledge like an oversized pigeon, tilting his ear. He blows a breath on his knuckles and rubs his hands together; winter in New York City is always miserable but it’s especially so for the neighborhood vigilantes patrolling the streets at night in skin-tight clothes.

December vanished unexpectedly and with it the stark beauty of raw, crisp winter. The new year greeted the city with rain – not the turbulent, stormy one that leaves behind the smell of earth and fresh beginnings, but a sluggish, insistent kind stinking of mud and leaving sloppy dirt afterwards for weeks. Matt would even prefer the cold; frost mercilessly bites at his exposed fleshy parts, but also gives him sharp focus. With his city cocooned in slurry muck, everything is muffled, and dull, and slow.

Even the scum of Hell’s Kitchen seemed to not bother venturing in this weather. In the two hours he’s spent there getting wet and sulking, he’s only registered two instances of disturbance when careless commuters slipped on the subway steps. Matt wills himself to take this upside, but it comes somewhat hard since it leaves him growing stiff in the dead of the night, useless and cold.

Matt rises from his crouched position, stretching his legs. Pins and needles leave a trail of sharp pinpricks from his knees down to his feet but he shakes them off. He needs to move or he’ll really rust to the ledge. Or worse, cultivate himself pneumonia and then going out at night is really going to _suck_. He can’t afford to take sick days.

He leaps to a roof below and nearly breaks his back. His foot slips on the slick edge – Matt desperately wags his arms like a windmill, twists mid-air in a distinctly feline way and lands face-first in trash. _Fucking sleet_. Not one of the most dignified moments in Daredevil’s career. He hopes no one saw this.

Matt extracts himself from a four-tentacled rotten banana – another reason to hate this weather, it shouldn’t be possible for trash to stink this bad in the middle of winter, it’s just _unfair_ – and freezes, listening.

Crying.

He’s on the move and up climbing a building before he even takes a full stock of the situation. Matt follows the voice like a hound follows a scent, gathering information – a girl, not older than seven, inside but awake, not alone. _Shh, shh, quiet sweetheart. It’s okay, let uncle take care of you, let uncle make you feel good._

Matt screeches to a stop. He listens, _it’s normal, shh, don’t wanna wake up your parents, show uncle that you love him, baby girl_ , and moves, racing. He hones on the sound and dulls out the words, swallows bile, slips on wet stone, and picks up. Matt tries not to make a habit of breaking into people’s homes but he’ll be damned if he lets one more little girl cry unheard in his city. Not again, not if he can – he _will_ – do something about it.

The little girl lives on a second floor from the last. Matt carefully slithers down the fire escape; her room is across the hall, which makes it tricky. But the devil is determined. The kitchen window is slit open to let in the night air – not smart in this neighborhood, Matt makes a mental note to close it on his way out – and he pushes it more wide, executes an entirely unnecessary front walkover and an aerial dismount and lands lightly on the kitchen linoleum floor. The girl’s cries have subsided into muffled mewls by now; Matt doesn’t let his thoughts linger on that. He creeps past the closed doors to the parents’ bedroom and comes to a stop at the little girl’s room. Considering how to play this out.

“It hurts…”

“Shh…”

Matt swallows. Move, dammit.

His frozen joints whine as he makes himself snap out of it, press on a door handle, slow, very slowly, so it makes no sound. Matt sneaks in the darkness of the room like a dancing shadow tore from the wall and come alive. He tries not to feel the salty tang of tears and fear, sweat and arousal that hangs in the air but it climbs inside his throat and sits heavy in his lungs. He sways, hit with a wave of sick and recoils when a second wave of disgust crashes into him; every second he spends hesitating, feeling _sorry_ for himself, is another second that will forever be burned into this little girl’s nightmares. Every time he doesn’t do something is another sin to weigh down his soul.

Matt throws his arms around the man’s neck and hauls him off the girl.

The man gargles. The little girl squeaks quietly. But the devil pays her no attention. He presses down his forearm down on the man’s trachea. The man flails his arms wildly, trying to pry him loose but he’s a scraggly slip of a creature; _measly thing, taking out his inadequacy issues on the only person weaker than him_ , Matt thinks fiercely and he squeezes harder, feels the man convulse against his chest. He’s going to crush his windpipe if he presses more and there’s something satisfying about it, something _right_. The man’s frantic heartbeat grows fainter, drowned out by the little girl’s hummingbird heart.

Matt loosens the hold and the man wheezes a desperate mouthful of breath, Adam’s apple banging against Matt’s taut muscles. He could kill that man if he wanted to. He could make sure he’ll never be able to touch a little girl ever again. But that would be a self-serving act. He won’t be another monster to haunt this little girl’s waking dreams.

“You leave my city,” Matt growls, low but so the girl can hear it. “Or I’ll be back for you.”

He increases the pressure until the man’s out cold and then he releases him, his body collapsing on the ground like a discarded toy. Then Matt turns to the girl, hummingbird heartbeat and clutching her mess of sheets protectively, and he takes off his mask.

“He’ll wake up in a few moments,” he says in a soft voice. “But then he’ll be gone and won’t hurt you again.”

“Are you my guardian angel?” the girl asks wonderingly.

“I,” Matt stutters. “I—I try to keep little girls like you safe.” He kneels at the foot of her bed, tilting his head up, does his best to meet her eyes. “Listen, if, if someone’s hurting you, if you ever need help—call for me. I’ll hear.”

The girl reaches out her little plump hand and tugs at the ends of his hair; Matt stiffens so he doesn’t jump.

“Your hair is fluffy,” she says resolutely. “I’ll remember to call for you, angel.”

Matt licks his lips and nods sharply. Then he stands up, his movements stiff and clunky like a glitching machine, and turns around. Puts his mask back on.

The night is long and he’s got a lot of sins to atone for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://programapilotoblog.files.wordpress.com/2016/08/leveragepencil.gif?w=723) is what I had in mind writing Matt breaking in through the window. So dramatic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. Lots of issues to unpack.

“You’re late,” Becky greets him when he finally drags his sorry hide to the office, approaching the bad side of noon. “Also, if I may be blunt, you look like something’s chewed and spat you out.”

“Spare me,” Matt sighs, fumbling for keys. He drops them, jingle-clang-crash, winces, picks them up with a sigh. He manages to insert the key into the hole on the third try and more leans his entire weight on the door than pushes it open. “And I don’t remember we agreed on an hour.”

“I assumed before lunchtime was a reasonable timeframe,” Becky says, wheeling after him into the office, not really an accusation in her voice. “Long night?” she prompts.

Matt shakes his head trying to flick stubborn thoughts away like flies.

“Just couldn’t sleep.”

“So,” Becky picks up. “Are there any pending cases I should know about?”

“Just one. Uhm.” Matt gives her a pale smile. “Let me catch you up.”

 

A tentative knock comes in the middle in an otherwise unremarkable day.

“I’m sorry,” says a woman hovered in the doorframe, everything slight about her from her posture to the tone of her voice. Humble, Matt thinks, hardworking. Not used to asking for help. “Are you—you’re Matt Murdock, yes?”

“Becky Blake,” Becky introduces herself, taking the initiative, and extends her hand. The woman shakes it slowly as in a daze. “Mr. Murdock’s associate. How can we be of service?”

“My daughter needs your help,” the woman says, her voice breaking.

“Please,” Matt says, putting his hand on the woman’s back and gesturing toward the conference room. “Right this way.”

He sits her down at the table and puts a steaming cup of tea before her, and he clears the room to make space for Becky’s wheelchair (“I don’t think this building’s ADA compliant,” Becky says with scathing humor. “We should sue them.” “Ha.”), and only then he sits and nods at the shaken woman to state her case.

“My name is Ann Walker,” she says. Becky bends her head over the table, pen scratching on paper. “Mary—my daughter—she—she’s in trouble. She was assaulted and—my baby,” the woman chokes.

“Ms. Walker,” Matt says.

“Ann,” she interjects.

“Ann,” Matt corrects himself. “Start from the beginning. Your daughter was assaulted?”

“She was raped,” Ann says around a dry sob. The pen scratching stops.

“I’m sorry,” Matt says in a quiet tone. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through. But this is a matter for the DA office. I’m not sure what we can—”

“This man—this _beast_ stalked her to her work,” Ann interrupts him, a simmering fire twisting her voice. “My baby, she helps kids that need special attention. He attacked her at _preschool_.” Becky touches her hand to her mouth. “He followed her to a bathroom and he choked her so she couldn’t scream…” Ann swallows sour tears, her throat fluttering wildly. Becky is a pillar of salt in her chair. “And he violated her. And then he—he violated her again with—with a plunger…” her voice breaks. Becky takes a sharp intake of breath and averts her face. “They took _splinters_ out of her.” Jesus. “You, you have to understand… Mary had to defend herself. She had no choice.”

“Ann,” Matt says. “What did Mary do?”

“She grabbed the plunger,” Ann says, her voice going distant. “She had to fight back. So she hit him. But he wouldn’t go down. So she hit him again. And again. Until he went down.”

“Ann,” Matt says. “We can’t help you unless you’re being entirely honest with us.”

Ann’s shoulders shrivel in on themselves and she brushes the bridge of her nose briefly.

“The pole broke,” Ann says quietly. “The… the broken end, it got in his eye. Damaged it completely. Mary was in shock, and she kept hitting him and she… A, a blood clot formed in his brain. There was nothing the paramedics could do.”

Matt lets out a weary breath.

“Ann,” he starts. “This is important. Did Mary start hitting him during or after the rape?” Ann stays quiet. “Ann?”

“He left her naked on the floor, like used tissue,” Ann says, swallowing over a lump in her throat. “He threw the plunger at her and said, _Here, maybe now you can f-finish_.”

She blinks wetly, her heartbeat quick but even.

“There was nothing else she could’ve done.”

 

Matt closes the door after Ann and lets out a drawn breath.

He turns to Becky with a questioning look.

“We’re taking the case,” Becky says immediately.

“I—okay,” Matt says, a little taken aback.

“She’s a preschool teacher that works with special needs kids and was brutally raped,” Becky says, a formal, hard tone to her voice. “No way she gets a conviction.”

“Agreed,” Matt says. “He penetrated her with a foreign object that left significant damage to her genitals, if we can get the med report from when she was admitted into the evidence, that will help us move the jury.” Becky tightens her fists on the wheels. “Plus, the plunger that was used to rape her was also the murder weapon. We can argue extreme emotional distress.”

“She was just _raped_ ,” Becky says hotly. “I say that’s distressing.”

Matt pauses.

“I’m not saying it’s not,” Matt points out.

“This guy followed her to her work,” Becky says. “He stalked her, God knows how long. He had her petrified.”

“Hang on,” Matt interjects, frowning. “We can’t prove she actually knew she was being followed prior to the attack. And even if, there’s no way we get the judge to admit it.”

“But if she was being intimidated—” Becky argues.

“It’s not relevant,” Matt says, shaking his head.

“Like hell it isn’t!” Becky fumes.

He comes up short, taken aback. Becky’s pulse is beating wildly, her clenched hands slipping with sweat on the wheels.

“This guy stalked, choked and brutally raped a woman,” Becky says in low, stilted voice.

“The victim is not on trial,” Matt says.

“He’s not a _victim_ ,” Becky huffs.

Matt raises his eyebrows.

“He was bludgeoned to death with a broken wooden pole,” Matt says, slow and reasonably patient. “In this case, yes, he is a victim.”

“The very same pole he used to _rape_ her, you mean,” Becky says, venomous.

“I’m not arguing that what he did wasn’t reprehensible—”

“Then what are you arguing?” Becky interrupts him.

“He raped her and she attacked him,” Matt says plainly. “We can argue she didn’t mean to kill him as she was reeling from trauma inflicted on her by the victim. These are the facts of the case. Whatever he did or didn’t do before, regardless of our personal feelings on it,” Matt presses, raising his voice when Becky opens her mouth, “has no bearing on the crime, therefore it is inadmissible. Every judge will tell you that. But you know this,” Matt points out, “so why are you pushing me on this?”

Becky inclines her head and spins her wheels, already turning around. Her heart in her chest beats as in a hurry.

“Forget it,” she mutters at last.

Matt lets out a long exhale and counts to ten.

“I’ll call the DA, get them to fax the report on the rape,” he says; a ceasefire. “Meanwhile find out when’s the earliest we can meet with our client. I know Tower, so I’ll try to lean on him to get the bail hearing fast-tracked. Let’s get this poor girl home.”

 

*

 

Matt hears the commotion from five blocks away – not unusual in New York City, but what makes his step stutter and his cane swing wilder is the smell of blood that hits his senses along with the noise. Not fresh blood but not old either; judging by its dry quality – he can’t explain it, but drying blood has a particular twist to it, the difference between day’s old and still wet paint. Can’t be older than twelve hours. And there’s… a lot of it. The whole alley stinks like a butcher’s shop.

Whoever’s blood it is, they’re certainly dead.

A crowd of gawkers that’s gathered at the mouth of an alley is smaller than he thought, but loud. Cameras’ flashing, self-important voices half-shouting over each other. A lot of men in heavy duty boots – comms beeping, metal jingling on metal, swish of a tape, _Step aside, step aside, we’re not answering questions at this moment_. Matt elbows a way through the sea of people playing up the confused blind man act, gets as far as the police tape until he’s stopped.

“Sir,” a woman says, her voice business erring on the verge of impatience, something he knows well from his numerous encounters with the police. “Sir, this is an active crime scene. Please step back.”

Matt furrows his forehead exaggeratedly, pulls his mouth in his helpless duck—in his pout.

“I’m blind,” he says, as if the cane and the glasses weren’t enough of a clue. He shakes the cane for the good measure; he finds that people are flustered and much more accommodating when they can’t pretend to not notice his disability. “What’s going on?”

“Sir,” the policewoman repeats shortly. No luck then. “Please, let the police do their job. Move along.”

“New York Post, will the police office be releasing a statement?” a reporter hollers over his head.

“We’re not giving any statements at this moment,” the policewoman says. Her trigger finger taps on her knuckle restlessly; she’s on the end of her patience now. “Please, move along. This is just a routine investigation.”

“You call all that blood routine?” someone shouts from the crowd.

Matt ducks under the reporter’s arm and taps over to the side where he can breathe a little. There’s a dull thud building up under his skull. He tilts his head from side to side until he gets a whiff of Karen’s whiskey-perfume. For a beat he just stands there, then he jerks himself out of it and taps his way over to her; he doesn’t need to pretend he doesn’t know what’s going on around him with her now.

“I got your voicemail,” he says. “That your idea of a coffee date?”

“There’s been a second rape-murder,” Karen says unceremoniously.

Matt drops his head for a moment and jolts his chin up abruptly.

“Are you sure?” he asks quietly, pulling her to the side, backing away from the cops. “I mean, do we know it’s the same guy? It could be a random attack, or a copycat—”

“Strangled, ligature marks on wrists and ankles, dumped in the trash within a four-block radius of the first victim. Oh, and she was meeting with ‘ring3r’ so he could _rape_ her,” Karen adds, as if an afterthought. “The cops didn’t release that detail to the press. It’s our guy.”

Matt exhales heavily.

“How’d you hear of this?”

“Glori still has a few strings to pull with the NYPD,” Karen explains with a shrug. “I cashed in a favor.”

“Another one?” Matt asks, raising his eyebrows.

Karen’s face flushes with pinpricks of heat.

“We go back,” she says, which only makes his eyebrows climb higher. “Besides, she has a personal stake in this case too.”

“How so?”

“Like me,” Karen says simply, a humorless sort of smile curling her words. “She wants to see this guy brought to justice.”

“You mean she wants to help you break the story,” Matt says curtly. Too sharp.

Karen huffs furiously.

“How dare you?” she snaps, her pointy finger digging painfully between his ribs. Matt takes a step back, smoothing down his shirt. “You of all people, how dare you stand here and accuse me of being a glory hound—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Matt says quickly, quietly. “Karen, look, I know your intentions are—noble but just look what happened with Frank! You can get hurt, or—”

“So can you, every night!” Karen exclaims. “How is that any different…”

“I’m equipped to deal with this thing, Karen,” Matt starts, straining to be patient.

“So am I.” She crosses her arms over her chest, paper notebook crinkling against her taffeta shirt, and raises her chin. “I handled Fisk, like I handled Frank, so don’t tell me that I can’t take care of myself on a simple crime beat assignment.”

 _Yeah, that bottle of whiskey will sure help you handle this one too_ , is on Matt’s tongue but he swallows it down. This kind of thing, you can’t take back. He pushes her too hard on this and she’ll walk away too.

He’s not sure when he forgot that it was exactly what he wanted.

“Okay,” he says finally, a concession and not. “Why am I here then?”

Karen averts her face, shoe tip drilling a hole in the ground, apprehensive but not apologetic.

“I wanted to see what you could tell from the crime scene.”

Matt gives her an empty stare.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Matt, what harm can come—” Karen says immediately like she was expecting resistance.

“I am not helping you in your crazy crusade,” Matt says exasperatedly.

Karen rolls her head, incredulous.

“You know you can’t stop me,” she says, a statement. Matt exhales. “Least you can do is make sure that I don’t go into this blin—unprepared.”

Matt tilts his face up, asking Heavens for patience, and drops his head in capitulation. He closes his eyes, zoning in on the blood cloud back in the alley.

“She’s been dead for at least eight hours,” Matt says with a frown, trying to isolate the cadaver smell from the plastic tang of body bag. “There’s a lot of blood, but… not enough. He pierced a major artery, there should be a bloodbath. All the wounds were made post mortem, but just so. Her body must’ve been still warm.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Karen mutters. “He strangled his first victim, he didn’t cut her. Why would he…”

“Maybe it’s not the same guy,” Matt supplies. Karen shakes her head vigorously.

“No, I told you, he contacted the victim as ‘ring3r’, there’s no way a copy-cat could’ve know that…”

“Maybe he’s trying to throw the police off his scent,” Matt suggests, shrugging. “Either way, it’s not how she died.”

“Glori said there were finger-shaped bruises on her throat,” Karen says. “He crushed her neck.”

“So he lures her into his apartment, ties her up… By then she still thinks they’re pretending, acting out this rape fantasy…” Matt says, playing out the sequence of the events in his head.

“Right, but then something goes wrong, she wants to back out, or he takes it too far,” Karen carries on. “So he rapes her.” Matt shrugs.

“For all we know the sex could’ve been consensual,” he points out. “They have, after all, met with the purpose of playacting a rape.”

“Fantasy or rape, when he’s done he doesn’t let her go,” Karen says, a frown to her voice. “I don’t get it. Why would he kill her if she already consented to rape? It’s not like she’d report him.”

“With guys like that, it’s not about the sex,” Matt says with a sour smile. “He wants to have her at his mercy, he wants the ultimate power. Strangling is intimate. I think that killing her for him is the climax. That’s how he gets off.”

“God, that’s sick,” Karen spews.

Matt’s forehead creases.

“Here’s what doesn’t fit for me. He pursues both women under this ‘ring3r’ name, practically leaves his calling card for the police. He kills the second victim in his apartment but then brings the body here to cut it up… She couldn’t have been long dead for that, so he has to live close by. That’s risky. Daring.”

“How do you know he killed her at his apartment,” Karen interjects.

Matt takes a sniff.

“He didn’t rape her here,” he says. “He just dumped her body. Threw her with the trash, right in his neighborhood.”

“Yeah, you didn’t see but the alley… the blood was splattered all over the wall,” Karen says, disgust in her stilted voice. “Not really inconspicuous.”

“Right, he wants her to be found,” Matt says hotly. “He left his prints pressed into her _flesh_. He’s taunting the police. Why would he try to throw them off by changing his MO?”

“Maybe the blood was a message,” Karen says. She chuckles darkly. “Maybe he didn’t want to wait for them to find his _work_.”

“Maybe,” Matt says. “Or maybe he’s escalating.”

They stay a moment in silence, the implication heavy between their breaths. Matt rubs the back of his neck and shakes his head helplessly.

“How did this happen, don’t the police have his IP address, how did he manage to solicit rape without them knowing about it…”

“He used a different site,” Karen says. “Rerouted his IP address through a bunch different countries from what I’ve heard, it’s virtually untraceable.”

“Can’t the cops ask for assistance,” Matt asks.

“Not really,” Karen says. “EU has strict user data protection policies, anyway it’s not just one country, which makes it trickier. But if we’re dealing with a serial killer…”

Matt shakes his head again.

“We don’t know that yet, it takes three victims to—”

“Do you really think this guy is going to stop?” Karen interrupts him. There’s a hard note in her voice.

Matt pinches his eyes and exhales slowly.

“Dammit,” he mutters.

“Hell’s Kitchen’s got a serial killer in its midst,” Karen says grimly.

 

*

 

The next morning greets him with a smell of stale instant coffee and a steady cadence of fingers racing on a keyboard. Matt ducks his head inside his office like a walk-in, frowning.

“How long have you been here?” he asks Becky, shucking off his jacket.

Becky’s chin doesn’t even twitch from where it’s bent over her computer.

“Eight,” she says. “It’s ten,” she adds matter-of-factly.

“Right,” Matt says, not sure what to say to that. He walks around to his office room but slows down, turning toward her over his shoulder. “Have you made any headway yet?”

“DA called, bail hearing for the Walker case is this afternoon,” Becky says, her fingers not stopping their galloping tap-tap-tap on the keyboard. “We have an appointment at Rikers in two hours. I printed some notes I made on the case, they’re on your desk.”

Matt slides his fingers over the fresh-smelling papers on top of his desk files. Braille.

“You read the med report?” he asks.

The tapping stops.

“No.” Becky resumes her typing, a small hitch to her tempo. “I was thinking you could do it.”

Something in her voice, an odd drawn-out note, makes him pause.

“Why?” he asks.

Becky’s fingers still on the keyboard again.

“What do you mean, why,” she asks, a strained note in her voice. “Everything else is already done, I thought you might do this thing. I put it on your desk with the notes, it’s in Braille too.”

“No, I’ll do it, I—” He stops and sighs. “Just, you’ve been here since eight and you’ve done all else that was to do. Why not look at the report?”

Becky doesn’t answer. Her fingers curl over the keyboard and then smooth out.

“Becky,” Matt says. “Is there a reason you shouldn’t take this case?”

“Why would there be,” Becky says lightly but her breathing and muscle control is all out of whack. She’s a good liar but not good enough.

“Becky,” Matt repeats, coaxing.

Becky tenses and abruptly makes her muscles relax.

“The reason I’m in this chair,” she starts, her voice distant and without any inflection, “is because I was attacked on my way back to the dorm when I was nineteen.”

“You were raped,” Matt says quietly. Becky jerks her chin in a sharp nod.

“He beat me so bad I had four broken bones, and by the time I was admitted to a hospital the damage to my spine was too severe to operate,” she narrates, still in that vacant voice. “I was told I’ll never walk again.”

Matt closes his eyes and runs his hand over his face wearily.

“I accepted that, as well as you can I suppose,” Becky says, shrugging. “I don’t get flashbacks anymore.” She chuckles, a self-deprecating, ugly sound. “Much. But I’d rather not read that report if that’s all the same with you.”

Matt nods his head up and down fervently.

“Yes, I—of course. I’ll read it.” He hovers in the doorway. “But Becky, are you sure…”

“I can handle the trial,” Becky says shortly. “I know it’s going to be brought up anyway, but… I don’t want to have to sit through it any more times than it’s absolutely necessary.”

Matt inclines his head, fingers knocking on the doorframe, and says, despite himself, “Did they ever get the bastard?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Becky says, words warped with a hideous dry humor. “I never made the statement to the police.”

Matt freezes.

“What?”

She shrugs again, tapping her fingers on the keyboard not really typing anything, stimming.

“I told the cops someone jumped me from the behind and knocked me out cold. Didn’t see his face.” She raps her fingers more intently. “Didn’t say anything about the rape.”

“ _Why?_ ” Matt finally chokes out.

“I just lived through the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Becky says, plain, resigned. “I didn’t want to live through it again. And again.”

“But that means he’s still out there,” Matt says. “Free to rape again.”

Becky curls her fingers into her palms, protective gesture.

“He put you in a _wheelchair_ , Becky,” Matt says, emphatic. “What’s stopping him from killing the next woman he rapes?”

Becky clenches tighter her fists.

“You’re—you’re a lawyer,” Matt points out in disbelief. “You should be setting an example. You _know_ what happens when rapists are not held accountable.”

“If you’re saying the next woman he rapes is my fault,” Becky grits out with difficulty and doesn’t say anything else.

The sentence hangs between them in an accusatory silence.

Becky inhales sharply and then forces herself to let out a steading exhale.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she says curtly. “Read the report, Matt.”

 

The med report can go a long way. No one could say that if not in the eyes of the law, Mary wasn’t morally justified in what she’s done; she was _brutalized_. Her elbows were scrapped near to the bone, the inner walls of her body were torn bloody, half of her face bruised and swelled with enough force she was admitted with concussion. And there’s the splinters. The perp used a condom, so no sperm, but he left plenty of DNA evidence under her nails – Mary was a fighter. If they push for an early court date maybe the swelling won’t completely go down yet. That’s gotta score sympathy points with the jury. Mary was hurt, distressed, and she lashed out in confusion and fear at her attacker. She’s the victim here, not the offender.

Matt leafs through the medical chart again, lingering at the extensive account of internal damages. He’s not sure what else he expects to get from it. The report reads like a gore story; there’s nothing new to learn there.

Her vaginal opening was _ripped_ ; Matt tries to imagine what kind of force it would take, to tear up flesh like a piece of paper. The senseless violence of it all – how he had shoved the plunger inside, again and again, thrust until soft, pliant body came apart at the seams, until the wood splintered from strain. It wasn’t just rape or sexual gratification. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted his victim to feel helpless and humiliated.

Matt shifts in his seat and his stomach plummets with sudden sick lurch. Dear God, he’s getting _hard_. He’s reading, rereading a rape med report and he’s _aroused_.

He pushes himself abruptly off his desk and shoves his knuckles down his teeth until he tastes blood. His dick twitches in his pants painfully. What sort of a sick bastard you have to be to get off on that? He’s reading how his client was brutally raped and he’s imagining it. He’s imagining how it would feel to rape someone.

Matt swallows a sharp spike of disgust like bile in his throat. This is not just wrong. It’s _depraved_. He’s no different from the scum he beats on every night. He tries to atone, maybe, but how can there be absolution when you’re rotten to your very core.

He grabs his jacket and rushes out of his office. “I’m going out,” he shoots over his shoulder to Becky on his way out.

“What? We have the meeting at Rikers in less than an hour—” Becky starts protesting.

“You do it,” Matt calls out, not stopping or slowing down, half in the door. “I have—another case I need to take care of.”

He better get a move on that atonement.

 

*

 

“I’m not your Jim Gordon, if that’s what you contrived in that head of yours,” Brett says in lieu of a greeting, not even looking up from patting his pockets for car keys.

“You know, I’m getting somewhat tired of the Batman jokes,” Matt says back, stepping forward into the static streetlamp light. It’s earlier than he usually goes out, but Matt couldn’t take the restlessness, pacing in his apartment from wall to wall, he had to leave as soon as the short winter day begun to fade away. He thought he’s done a decent job of staying in the shadows. Dammit. “Detective.”

“You the one who decided to put on the tights,” Brett remarks, shrugging.

Matt gestures at the coffee cup perched on the squad car’s roof.

“Long night?”

“Bout to be longer,” Brett grunts. “I imagine you’re not just here to chat about the Mets, huh?”

“Jean DeWolff,” Matt says. Brett sighs heavily.

“You’re playing sex police now?” Brett says, exasperated. “What about her.”

“I’m just interested in the circumstances surrounding the crime,” Matt says vaguely.

“Yeah? Read about it in the papers like everyone else.” Brett finally locates his keys and pings the car open. Matt leans against the car’s side and Brett exhales with annoyance and crosses his arms.

“Come on, Detective,” Matt goads, curling his lips dryly. “I thought we had history there.”

Brett shakes his head incredulously and then steps close up in his face, speaking urgent and low.

“Listen, let me get one thing straight. Not arresting your punk ass once or twice does not make me your friend.” Matt snorts. “And better believe it that if I thought for a second that you wouldn’t parkour your way outta here the moment I tried to cuff you, you’d be getting processed down at 18th under five minutes.” Brett takes a step back, raising his chin. “That coffee cost me five bucks. I don’t need you now spilling it uselessly in a struggle. Can’t afford that on cop’s salary.”

“Noted,” Matt says dully.

“Great. Now get the hell off my car.”

Matt steps away obligingly.

“Heather Glenn.” Brett freezes with his hand on the door handle. “Should I read about her in the papers too?”

Brett whirls around instantly.

“What did you say?”

Matt shrugs, faux nonchalant.

“Rumors are floating around, Detective. I heard she was raped and killed under very suspect circumstances. Kind of like Jean DeWolff.”

Brett stiffens.

“What are you saying?”

“Just that you wouldn’t want it leaking prematurely, causing a panic,” Matt says, reasonable. “Hell’s Kitchen Butcher makes a hell of a serial killer moniker.”

“You talking to the _press_?” Brett hisses. Matt stands unmoved.

“The press is talking to me,” he says, deadpan.

Brett deflates, rubs his pinched face.

“Okay,” he says at last. “Okay. I don’t know much, just what I heard the guys talking, but.” He pauses meaningfully. “I hear the person to talk to is Special Agent Angela del Toro.”

Matt’s eyebrows climb up on his forehead.

“The feds are involved?”

Brett looks around like he’s making sure they’re alone and leans in his head secretively.

“Like I said, I don’t know much,” he says, something quiet but intense in his voice. “But from what I’ve heard? It’s big.”

 

Matt takes the scenic route back to his usual patrol spot, mulling Brett’s words over. Well, “scenic” for the Devil means the grubbiest and vilest back alleys in Hell’s Kitchen. He breaks a few noses, cocks a drug mule on the head with a rebar in a near-leisure swing. He needs the exertion; he needs to clear his head. Violence is white noise in his life. A lawyer or not, cool brainstorming never really worked for him – punching out the problem is how he processes.

He stops to take a breath after putting down a thug by the Hudson, lucky bastard knocked his wind out there for a second, and catches an all-too-familiar wet sound. He tilts his ear; not even a block away, a struggle, choked spitting garble. Like someone retching and swallowing over something down their – her – throat.

“You got to be kidding me,” Matt murmurs, and takes off, dancing between the streetlamp spotlights, sinking into the night.

Rounding the corner, he round-kicks the guy in the head not bothering with introductions. The man cries out, anger and pain.

“The fuck!” he screams. “You made her bit me! I’ll fucking kill you, bitch!”

“You alright?” Matt leans down to the woman, heaving and clutching her throat at the ground.

A sharp line cuts his upper arm; damn, the asshole has a knife, how did he miss it? Matt ducks under another wild swing – it whooshes right over his hairline, too close to comfort. He needs to get this girl out of here, now. He can’t look out for the both of them.

“Go!” Matt cries and hisses when the knife gets him in the forearm. Fuck, this one’s deep. He grabs the woman’s shoulder with his uninjured hand and pushes her to the opening of the alley. “ _Now!_ ”

The woman scrambles away and Matt lets out a breath.

Okay.

“You think you’re so tough?!” the man yells, hoarse, spitting voice. “See how you take that, tough man!”

The man slashes at him, crazed sweeping arc. Damn, this guy is fast. Stronger than he seems, too. Matt grabs his forearm but the man slips from his grasp, drops the knife to his other hand. Scrawny but sinewy. He’s been getting cocky, complacent. Matt is hit with the realization that he might lose this fight.

He searches around for the nearest fire escape – better bruised pride than his ribs – and a searing pain stabs him in the side.

Knees go under him and Matt hits hard asphalt. Then the knife is at his throat and a slimy hand fists his hair at the back of his head and Matt—he can’t move.

“Yeah,” the guy spews, a revolting sort of satisfaction heavy on his tongue. “I wasn’t done when you _interrupted me_.”

Matt stills and then recoils with realization. At the back of his throat Matt can taste the sour scent of the man’s half-hard dick and the sweat running down his unwashed balls. He thrashes desperately backwards and the man cries out in surprise and then he’s _free_ —he kicks in the man’s kneecap in truly blind panic, hears the bone snap ugly and the coarse shout of pain, and then he’s hitting with abandon, fist connecting with squishy nose parts, once, twice, thrice, until the man is down.

He stands over the man’s body, ribcage flailing wild. His lungs can’t get enough of air. His knuckles ache, split open. His belly down low and between his legs is rousing.

_Oh._

 

*

 

The apartment is quiet.

Matt pulls his gloves off with his teeth, unbuckles his boots and slides one off and then the other, fingers for the hidden zippers in his suit. Scratches his fingertips on the coarse edges, tries again. He sheds the suit like an insect peeled from its shell, clinging to his skin with sweat and falling with a dull thud to the ground. He stands in the underwear in the middle of his living room and then lurches, suddenly unable to stand the crawling expanse of his naked skin. He grabs whatever clothes fall into his hands, pulls them on and only then breathes out with ease. His spine weights heavy on his feet so he sinks to the ground, lays his head down on the hard floorboards. The wood is cool on his cheek. Grounding.

So this is how it feels like to be truly deranged.

Matt stares vacantly in the silence, contemplating what’s almost happened to him. What his body, somehow, welcomed. He thinks about life and how between every breath we teeter on the edge of violence. Violation.

How many almosts have there been?

His brain is like an ocean after an oil spill: you try to fish out a memory and it slips through your fingers, too slippery to grasp it; even if you clench your fists and hold on tight, you look and see that it’s covered with black grime, a mangled dead thing.

Has it started with Elektra? This dark burning need blackening him from inside? Matt’s heart squeezes painfully. Beautiful, cruel Elektra who tried to be good and now is buried deep in the frozen hard ground. He doesn’t want to think about Elektra; this life he wanted with her, almost had, and lost, is too raw a wound, he hasn’t grieved for it yet. Matt knows that longing for Elektra is a dark well he can fall in for days. He shakes his head, reaches further into the murky depths of his memory, to a happier chapter when loving Elektra was easy like breathing and he hasn’t tasted heartbreak yet.

Elektra liked to play games. It was one of the things he loved her for, before he grew to despise it. But Elektra’s games were just like her – dangerous and unpredictable, and magnetic. Not careful enough and you could burn yourself to death.

She liked to tie him up; Matt didn’t care much for it, but he liked the way her breathing grew sharp and her touches cutting when she had him at her mercy. One time they had to crash at one of Elektra’s many nameless friends’ apartment and she tied him up with the silk tie she bought him, her friend’s breathing ghosting on the other side of the paper-thin wall. “It will be fun,” she said, a sensuous lilt to her voice, her rich accent caressing every word. “Don’t be boring, Matthew.”

Elektra’s taste was spicy on his tongue and her moans were a melody in his ears. His senses were swimming with alcohol, toeing dangerously on the edge between pleasant and nauseating. Elektra was loud, unapologetic; the whole apartment was thrumming with sex.

Matt tried to turn his head to say that her friend would hear, but Elektra ground down on his face and whispered hotly, “ _Don’t you dare._ ” And then suddenly Matt felt the presence of another person, Liz, Elektra’s friend, hovering in the room. Slithering up the bed. Matt mumbled unintelligibly and Elektra pushed his head in place, cooed, “Shh, it’s alright, it’s going to feel so good…”

Liz slipped her hands down Elektra’s waist and bit at the hollow of her neck, hot and wet. Elektra turned her face around and then they were kissing, a lazy slide of tongues in rhythm with Elektra rolling her hips.

Matt felt his erection flagging but Elektra grabbed his cock and stroked him back to full hardness. Her hand pumped him, tugging slightly, and Matt made his lips move, made himself lick her the way she liked. Elektra raised on her knees and then threw her leg over his face, straddling him backwards; she leaned forward on his chest to meet Liz and Liz sighed lightly into Elektra’s soft lips.

Liz smelled tangy and overwhelming. The room was too hot. Elektra crooked her fingers inside Liz and the wet squelch smacked his ears like a booming TV, turned up too loud. Liz was whining, dissonant with Elektra’s silky moans.

It went on for a while: Liz rocking on Elektra’s fingers, Elektra’s warm hand sliding up and down his length, Matt moving his mouth to pleasure Elektra. Liz’s hands wandered, running up his thighs, tracing the creases of his hips, brushing against his nipples. Matt lay on his back and listened for Elektra’s pulse slowing down, like it did just before she climaxed.

When it was done Matt wiped off his face and slid under the covers. Elektra brushed his mouth with a fingertip and laughed softly. “Thank you, Matthew,” she said. “That was lovely.”

She laid a delicate kiss on Liz’s lips and Liz disappeared, as silent and ghostly as she had come.

In the morning Liz was gone and they ate the breakfast alone in her imposing marble kitchen, Elektra tapping on her phone and feeding him grapes from her knife, idyllic Greek tableau.

“Liz says that she’s sorry for interrupting us last night,” Elektra said suddenly, her voice thick with wicked humor. “But you didn’t seem to mind so she stayed.”

Matt swallowed and nodded shortly and ducked his face. Elektra tapped his lips with the knife so he opened his mouth obediently and swallowed another grape.

He shakes his head. It was a long time ago. It’s no good, dwelling on things long past. Elektra with her reckless laugh and a challenge in every word, always pushing his boundaries to see the limits he could go to, to stretch them and transcend them, is a closed chapter. He decided to put it behind him and never look back.

But the memories are there. Covered in a layer of dust, and removed like old home videos you watch and think, _that’s me_ , and you look at the version of you from the past and see a stranger. But the memories are there. He thought he’d long lost them to whatever dark place things that are forgotten go. And yet. Despite himself, Matt plunges his hands in the muddy waters of his brain, trying to find what else is there he thought he forgot a long time ago.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, exactly, but he knows when he finds it. First year, law school. The only truly happy period in his life. He remembers how it felt to feel like a person, for the first time, to live out your days and not count them, to look to the future and see the sunny stretch of possibilities instead of his past weighing him down like pockets full of stones. How it felt to bask in the glare of simple, uncompromising affection, something he thought he’d never feel again after his dad died.

When Matt looks at this happier time, Foggy’s sticky handprints are all over every memory. He can’t think about that—Foggy is no longer a familiar, steady fixture in his life. Him and Foggy, whatever they made for themselves and what they could have been, they’re done. He doesn’t want to remember.

He doesn’t want to remember _trust_. Matt’s never trusted anyone before. Trust was something wild and foreign for him, an outrageous luxury people like him couldn’t afford. Stick made sure that this lesson would stick (ha). But he trusted Foggy; didn’t even realize Foggy had been becoming _his person_ before Foggy’s light presence was just one of the facts of life. He slipped into caring like one slips into sleep, no conscious decision and unwitting until you’re abruptly jerked awake.

He doesn’t want to remember being careless and free of worry. They used to sneak out of the dorm late at night and roam around the campus for hours, drunk on the midnight air and booze. In the tantalizing quiet of the city finally asleep and his friend’s raucous laughter reverberating through his ribs, Matt had felt young and alive, like never before.

He doesn’t want to remember how Foggy said to him, _I feel like there’s always something you’re not saying, like there’s a part of you that you don’t let be known, you know_? and how Matt said, _I want you to get to know me_. He drank glass after glass, trying to find some liquid courage to bare corners of his soul he’d never dared to say out loud. But it didn’t matter, in the end. His skull buzzed like a wild wasp nest and his lips slurred uselessly—the world flipped and suddenly Matt was on his back and then Foggy was on top of him and then they were kissing.

He doesn’t want to remember how he pushed Foggy away after a while – had it been seconds or minutes dragging into hours? – and hurled all over their dorm floor. There are flashes, after that – Foggy wiping the floor, muttering, getting Matt straightened out somewhat. They didn’t talk about it, the next morning. Foggy went to classes and Matt locked himself in the bathroom; he felt chewed, spit out, and thrown away. The sweater he had on last night, his favorite sweater, was stained with vomit. He touched a pulsating point of pressure in the hollow of his throat and down on his sternum between his breasts. Lovebites. Matt swallowed a sharp spike of bile clawing back to his throat. He trashed the sweater. He wore scarfs through the rest of the month, stubbornly sweating the warm March weather.

He doesn’t want to remember that.

Some things are better left locked out. If you don’t think about them, they don’t have a power over you. Right? Right? He shouldn’t let them keep their power over him. He can choose to walk away. The first time someone takes advantage of you, you’re a victim and the second time, you’re a volunteer. Matt doesn’t remember where he got that; likely he got it from Stick.

His years with Stick are like a red folk paper cut-out. Matt imagines a string of paper dolls holding their hands – each one stands for a move or a skill Stick had beat into his stubborn body. The discarded scraps of paper littering the ground are trickier. They can be longing child’s emotions he’s wasted on Stick throughout the years; they can be bruises from every bad landing and stupid mistake that he’d frantically hide under stretched out sleeves and feeble excuses.

And they can be touches. Oh, nothing ever went beyond the cursory, but he felt each of them, Stick’s palms burning black marks into his flesh. His stomach churning uneasily under lingering fingers, bony thumb dug into the hollow of his clavicle and a wood-hard hand pushing at the small of his back, an odd lilt in the way Stick would say _Matty_ that stick to his skin like dead moths stick to a paper trap. Wondering, wondering, is he crazy or is he not just imagining it?

— _stop_. This isn’t right. This, this fishing for imagined past wrongs, this… casting yourself in a role of a poor abused victim. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself. Convenient, to renounce any and all accountability for your actions. Isn’t that what all monsters do? Dig into their past to use someone that did something to them some time as an _excuse_?

 _You want it to be something it’s not_ , Matt tells himself firmly and decides to quit shirking responsibility for his own life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The first time a woman is hit, she is a victim and the second time, she is a volunteer” – Gavin de Becker, _The Gift of Fear _. Great book, TERRIBLE quote. Sorry, Gavin, you had me and you lost me with this.__


	4. Chapter 4

All serial killers have their signature. There’s a reason they kill the way they do; it’s criminal psychology 101. They choose their victims because they remind them of someone or represent something – like Juana Barraza working out her anger for her mother by killing old ladies and killers targeting sex workers because they’re an easy outlet for their hatred toward women. There’s always a pattern.

To catch a serial killer, you need to get inside his head first.

Heather Glenn was a socialite. In her early twenties, Daddy owns a big company that pays for her lifestyle of idleness and depravity. According to yellow papers, she didn’t shirk from recreational drugs and dangerous sex.

Jean DeWolff was in her late thirties, ex-cop, branching out into the security business. Lower middle class, at best. There’s not much about her on the Internet – a facebook account, private, an article from 2012 about her helping to rescue twenty people from a crushed building in the Incident. Jean DeWolff was a hero. Nothing on her parents or even the school she went to.

Matt lists their similarities. Both white women, young-ish, both apparently into some seriously kinky sex. Other than that, they’re two different worlds.

There has to be a connection.

Ringer didn’t choose his victims at random. They weren’t the first to answer his ad; he talked with them, too, at least a week before they were murdered. It took some digging, but the cops didn’t do a thorough job of locking down all ring3r’s presence on the Internet. He canvassed for his victims on many sites – the earliest mention Matt managed to find was dated over a _month_ before Jean DeWolff was killed. He knew exactly who he was looking for.

It’s past eleven by the time he’s sure he’s been through all the sites that mentioned anything pertaining to Ringer or one of his victims with a fine-toothed comb; Matt stretches his stiff limbs and evaluates his options. It’s a little early for Daredevil to make his appearance. Besides, his thoughts are swarming with pornographic posts and a supercut of the lives of dead women and he can’t go out like that. Distracted.

Maybe a little walk would clear up his mind. There’s that bodega he knows a few blocks down and come to think of it, he’s running low on groceries anyway. Not his usual one, the closest, but they don’t sell there those dried banana chips that he likes, just the gross off-brand. Might as well venture beyond the home-work-patrol old route.

The bodega is just where he remembers it. Good thing too – his senses are very useful for some things but less so for navigating NYC. Do you know how a 7-eleven smells? Exactly like every other convenience store and also trash. He knows it’s open past midnight, so he’s got time. Matt pulls his hoodie deeper over his face and walks past the bodega and into the back alley, where he tilts his head to make sure no one’s around and then scales up the fire escape. He counts, first, second, third floor; apartment 11B should be facing the south side. The window is closed but the lock is shit – it takes him less than a minute to break it. Matt quietly slips inside, sliding the window down behind him and straightens up in the living room of the late Jean DeWolff’s apartment.

Google. God bless the age of no privacy.

Matt slowly circles the room, taking it all in; he feared that it would be cleared up by now but either Jean’s lease hasn’t run out yet or the living relatives haven’t gotten around to packing everything up. Though it seems strange that they would let the apartment stand this way – the trash hasn’t been taken out, rotting apple and half spoiled goat cheese, at least week-old, and there’s empty takeout boxes on the coffee table, Chinese, lo mein maybe. An open laptop, still charging; not for the first time Matt wishes it could be of any use to him. He debates calling Karen for a second and then decides against it; no good, getting her involved even more than she already is. This is something he’s got to do alone.

If he expected to find some clue to the identity of Jean DeWolff’s killer in her apartment… It’s an apartment. A basket of dirty laundry on a kitchen table waiting to be taken to the laundromat. Clothes laid out on a chair for tomorrow, suit pants and a slightly sweaty shirt. A gun in a safe at the back of a dresser – that makes him smile, faint and sour. A normal life, it seems, that hasn’t caught on yet that its owner is not going to come to pick it up.

Matt smooths a finger down sleep-mused bedsheets, left unmade. Jean smoked menthols and washed her hair with anti-dandruff shampoo. There’s a few stray hairs caught in her pillow and stuck to the sheet. He wonders how is it that her apartment was left undisturbed by the police. By her family. Jean has no photos in the living room and by her bed. Her walls are stark bare. Her cigarette-citrus wardrobe freshener smell has sunk deep into the furniture; she’s lived there for a while. And yet there’s no traces of another’s presence besides Matt’s own soap and blood, no sweat handprints belonging to someone else other than the delivery guy’s on the takeout box. There’s no one else here caught in this life encapsulated, no one but Jean.

What a lonely life it must have been.

Matt scratches the back of his neck, an uncomfortable prickling feeling on his skin. Would he find a smell other than half-dried injuries and occasional Thai if he inspected his own apartment? Are there any mementos, any sentimental objects that are not locked away in the bottom of his cabinet? If a stranger looked at his home, would they see anyone’s presence but his own?

 _So maudlin_ , comes Sister Constance’s long buried voice at the back of his head. Focus. You’re here to find what you can about how this Ringer person operates. Something to link Jean DeWolff with Heather Glenn.

But maybe there is no connection. Maybe this Ringer just picked the woman that was willing to meet him at earliest convenience. Maybe he’s looking for something that isn’t there.

Matt shakes his head. Or he’s not seeing something. This isn’t what he _does_. He doesn’t have the experience. The obvious connection could be right in front of his face and he could be none the wiser.

He needs to have that talk with Angela del Toro.

 

*

 

“My old boss had this philosophy,” Becky pipes up in a conversational tone, raising her head from her keyboard. “Come to work late, so he can leave early.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Matt points out.

“Maybe,” Becky says. She shrugs. “Though you also seem to subscribe to this philosophy.”

Matt touches the back of his neck briefly, familiar rousing guilt sucking in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m—I’m sorry, I don’t make a habit of it, it’s just I had a lot on my head recently—”

“ _You_ wanted to push for an early court date,” Becky reminds him snippily. Matt exhales, ragged and tired.

“I know—”

“You didn’t even meet with our client once,” Becky interjects, accusatory. “The trial starts in two weeks—”

“I’ll meet with her,” Matt offers quickly. “I have the opening statement almost ready—” That is a blatant lie, the only thing he managed to accomplish is to open a document and sit in front of an empty page for hours.

“When?” Becky interrupts him. “When are you going to meet with her? At _trial_?”

“I’ll schedule something for tomorrow,” Matt says, a concession.

Becky stays silent for a moment, waggling a pen between her fingers pensively.

“I came to you because I wanted to work with someone who cares,” she says finally. “Don’t prove me wrong, Matt.”

“I won’t,” Matt promises. _If the last few days are any indication, you sure as hell haven't been here! Going forward, I will count on you for nothing at all._ He tells himself this time is different, but he doesn’t really believe himself.

 

Mary Walker is not what he expected.

Rikers is bustling with echoing shouts, metal bars clinking and cacophony of bodily functions of thousands crowded inmates living in too close-quarters. Matt feels a pulsating headache beating at the base of his skull even before they cross the threshold of Women’s Correctional Facility. He’s hit with a wave of overwhelming déjà vu – he could swear that for a moment he tastes blood spurting on his tongue and bends under Fisk’s meaty paw clenching around the back of his neck. Matt shakes it off. He can only handle one monster at once.

They bring her out into the visiting room to give them some privacy with their client. Mary doesn’t say anything, drags the chair on the floor, a drilling sound, and sits down heavily, one foot hitting the ground with a dull thud and then the other. She smells like industrial soap and prison cafeteria food and scabbed-over blood.

“Are they treating you right?” Becky immediately says, wheeling in closer. “We’re working on raising your bail, it won’t take many more days, I promise.”

Mary sits with her elbows stretched on the table, chewing a wooden splinter between her teeth. A toothpick. Matt wonders where she got that.

“Who is he,” Mary at last says, jerking her chin at Matt.

“Matt Murdock,” Matt says swiftly, offering out his hand. “I’ll be assisting with your defense.”

Mary shuffles the toothpick in her mouth, not saying anything. Matt slowly lowers his hand and curls it to his side.

“I need money,” Mary says lazily after a moment, her face turned to Becky. “I gotta buy some stamps.”

“Stamps?” Becky repeats.

Mary smacks her tongue around the toothpick and shrugs.

“Prison currency,” she says. “I need cigs.”

“You should try to stay out of trouble,” Matt says then. “Jail infractions can get your bail revoked and they’re public record. The prosecution can and will drag them out during the trial.”

No answer. Matt squirms uncomfortably; he can’t see Mary staring at him but he feels it, like beetles crawling over his skin.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Becky says conciliatorily.

“Make bail soon,” Mary says. “Bitch from the cell is testing me. If I have to spend couple more days in here I can’t answer for what I’m gonna do.”

 

“ _She’s_ a preschool teacher?” Matt says incredulously when they go to leave after a few more unproductive minutes making conversation with Mary.

Becky huffs, something protective in her stance.

“She’s been through hell,” she says defensively. “She’s been raped and now she’s in jail. You can’t blame her for looking out for herself.”

Matt opens his mouth to say something and then closes it. He flashes back to the med report – multiple lacerations, bruising to the side of her face, concussion. What it would be like, what it _is_ , for her to live with ugly reminders of the worst thing that’s happened to her. _I just lived through the worst thing that’s ever happened to me_ , Becky’s voice suddenly surfaces to his mind. _I didn’t want to live through it again. And again._

But she _does_. Mary’s bruises may heal, and maybe someday she’ll be able to get past the mental scars, but Becky’s rapist put her in that wheelchair. She can’t live her life without the constant reminder of what this man has done to her.

Matt unwittingly thinks back to that other night and his stomach makes a giddy somersault. His knees bruising on the ground, the man’s sweetly-wet stench a fist in his throat. A gut-punch of arousal when it came to him what almost has happened.

Sick.

 _You deserve to get raped_ , Matt thinks and follows Becky down the desolate grim corridors and out into the day’s light.

 

*

 

The devil shadows his target all the way from her work, follows the snail-pacing cab from a safe distance up in the roofs of his city. She gets out at the corner of 49th street, rap-thud of hollow two-inch heels and artificial-fresh deodorant, and takes a turn into a lone backstreet, lit sparsely with lamps buzzing their last breath.

A dangerous place for a woman to walk alone at night. A place where walk many devils.

Matt lands right in her way and realizes his mistake a millisecond later when he’s faced with a barrel of a gun.

“I come as a friend,” Matt says, raising his hands slowly. _Careful there_ , the devil whispers. _One more mistake and you may end up dead_.

Angela del Toro gestures with the gun for him to stand up and doesn’t lower it, not an inch. Her heartbeat is steady.

“Hands where I can see them,” she says, a hard note to her voice; this is a woman you don’t get into a discussion with. “Take a step back.”

Matt obediently backs away, lowering his hands slowly but keeping them spread so it’s obvious he’s not trying something. Smart, that – most people don’t take into the account how easy is to disarm a person in close combat.

“Easy,” he says, as calming as he can make himself sound in his raspy devil voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Angela snorts.

“I think not.” Matt bites down on an unwitting smirk.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Mind lowering that gun?”

“No,” Angela says, a quip but dead serious too. “I think I’m not gonna take my chances.”

Matt exhales and makes his shoulders relax, trying to ignore the gun aimed straight between his eyes.

“Fair enough,” he murmurs at last. Then he remarks, forcing a conversational tone, “You keep late hours, Agent.” Angela shrugs.

“Comes with the job.”

“Ha,” Matt says. “Yeah, same here.”

Angela’s hands tighten around the gun. Matt stills. _The safety is on_ , he reminds himself, but his lizard brain can’t seem to get over the “there’s a gun pointed at your face” thing.

“And what job would that be?” Angela says, her voice clipped and straining with something. “Beating up strangers in dark alleys?”

“No,” Matt rasps, in truth affronted. “Helping people.” Angela laughs a little incredulously.

“By punching them into a coma?”

“By protecting them from criminals,” Matt corrects her, hard. “Kinda like you.”

“I don’t skulk at night all in black playing judge, jury and executioner,” Angela says. Matt’s face stings with a sudden wave of righteous heat.

“No,” he says coldly. “You just invigilate average citizens and imprison people for crimes they might commit.”

“I don’t do that,” Angela says immediately. Her heart ticks up a beat; he’s hit a sore spot.

Matt shrugs, exaggeratedly slow.

“Maybe not,” he allows. “But can you say the same about your colleagues?”

A hint of hesitation, too long a pause, but it’s all Matt needs. He knows he’s got her now.

Then Angela surprises him by lowering her gun.

“Fine,” she says. “What do you want?”

Matt drops his arms, tendons whining in relief.

“You know, I usually don’t let people get a drop on me like that,” he admits. “You’re… you’re good.”

Angela snorts; the corner of his lips quirks up in a smile and he likes to imagine hers does the same.

“Maybe it’s your off night,” she says dryly. “If you’re here about the Glenn case you can forget it.” Matt blinks, reeling a little from the abrupt change of tracks.

He debates bullshitting and decides it probably wouldn’t fly with her.

“Look, I just want to compare notes,” he says, putting on his best “persuade the jury” voice. “I’m working the case and you’re working the case, so we could—”

“ _You’re working the case?_ ” Angela interrupts him, disbelieving. “You’re a civilian. Stick to beating up muggers, Daredevil.” She turns away, done with talking.

“I know about Ringer,” Matt says suddenly. “I know that it’s connected to DeWolff murder, I know he’s getting them through social media, I know there’s a serial killer in Hell’s Kitch—”

“Keep your voice down,” Angela hisses, whirling back around. “And I don’t know where you got all this serial killer conspiracy theory from but—”

“Please, Agent,” Matt snorts indignantly. “I’m not that daft.”

Angela is silent for a moment, regarding, and then crosses her arms over her breast.

“Where did you hear about Ringer?” she asks at last, distrusting. “It wasn’t released to the press.”

“I… have a source on the force,” Matt says, echoing Karen. Angela clicks her tongue impatiently, as unimpressed as he had been.

“You mean you snoop into police matters,” she says, not a question. She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose briefly. “I should arrest you,” she mutters, more to herself.

“But you won’t,” Matt takes a gamble. “Will you, Agent?”

Angela lets out a slow exhale.

“New York vigilantes are a pain in the ass,” she says, grudging. “I’ll leave you to the NYPD. Look,” she starts intently, “If, _if_ we’re going to do this, it’s going to be on _my_ terms. You understand?”

“Crystal clear,” Matt assures her.

“You bring me updates on your little investigation and then _maybe_ I’ll have something to share.” Matt frowns.

“That doesn’t feel like an equal deal.”

“Well, it’s the only deal you’re going to get,” Angela says, shrugging. “So take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Matt says, resigned. Angela nods decisively.

“Good,” she says and then adds, “I still reserve the right to arrest you if you particularly annoy me.”

Matt’s startled into a quiet laugh.

“I’ve been told it’s a common impulse,” he says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Somehow I don’t doubt that,” Angela says and he’s taken aback a little by the genuine warmth in her voice. “How can I contact you?”

Matt gives her best twisted grin.

“I’ll find you,” he says darkly.

“Sure, Batman,” Angela deadpans.

“That’s, that’s funny,” Matt says, sardonic. “Haven’t heard that one before, Agent.”

“Call me Angela.” She shrugs at his surprised expression. “Easier that way.” Then she adds in a pleased voice of a person who’s thought about it for a while, “I suppose I can call you Bruce.”

 

*

 

Matt calls 911 from a payphone across the street.

Becky is really gonna be pissed. He’s been late coming to the office all through the week; though you have to admit, “murder on the Eighth Avenue” is a new excuse.

He was thinking about Ringer, distracted. He hasn’t even spotted the body until he was five feet from it – a stench from a dead-end alley bored into his nostrils, something sweeter and sicker than your usual run-of-the-mill trash. Matt slowed down, cocking his head – spoiled food, used tampons, and underneath all that, a nauseating odor of decaying flesh. He stopped; it’s fresh too, no older than a couple hours. No blood he could smell or any obvious fatal injury; just death, and…

Human hair.

Matt stays on the other side of the street when the police arrive. He walks into a random store and pretends to inspect the fruit there; he doesn’t need to explain to the cops how a blind guy discovered a body in the trash. And he listens.

“Jeez,” a cop, smoker’s voice and whining knees – does a lot of sitting on the job. “Take a look at that, Marty.”

“Poor son of a bitch,” Marty says; his heartbeat flutters and he gets a wheeze in the time it takes him to get out of the squad car. High blood pressure.

“Who the fuck dumps a body on the corner of Eighth Avenue,” Smoky says.

“Someone who wants it to be found,” Marty mutters. “You know who called the tip?”

“A concerned citizen,” Smoky drawls out the words, sarcastic. Matt huffs. “Probably from that payphone across the street. You think he’s our guy?”

“Can’t hurt to dust for prints.”

“You kidding? It’s a public payphone. There’s must be like a million of them.”

Marty shrugs.

“We put them into the database, see if any’s a match. It’s a long shot, but.” He shrugs again.

“Not our problem,” Smoky says suddenly. “Better call SVU.”

“Why?”

“Our dead man’s naked as the day he was born,” Smoky says, knees whining in protest when he stands up.

“That don’t mean anything,” Marty grunts.

“It’s the twenty first century, Marty,” Smoky says jovially. “Men can get raped now too. Ligature marks on wrists and ankles, strangled. Shit.”

“Hey, you touching, you buying, son,” a disgruntled voice cuts into Matt’s thoughts. Matt blinks and turns to the source.

“You hear me—uhm,” the store clerk dries up.

Matt smiles, giving him his best “it’s not my fault, I’m blind” look.

“I’m sorry?” he says, extra politely.

“Never mind,” the store clerk grumbles and shuffles away.

Not a minute after the SVU detectives arrive, a floral scent, a floral scent he _knows_ follows.

“No way,” Matt mutters, tapping his way across the street hurriedly, and calls out louder, “Karen!”

Karen turns around, her hair effusing a new wave of the perfume. He thinks it’s got lily of the valley in it.

“What are you doing here?” he asks on an exhale.

“What are you doing here?” Karen counters.

“I called in the tip,” Matt says.

“Glori called me,” Karen says. “Wait. _You_ called in the tip?”

Matt makes a vague clueless gesture.

“He was just… there,” he says. “I was on my way to work. I don’t know.”

“He’s a _he_?” Karen says disbelievingly.

“Ligature marks, strangled, body dumped in the open view,” Matt lists, “and yeah, very much male.”

“What the hell is going on,” Karen mutters.

Matt tilts his head, frowning.

“Call del Toro,” a detective is saying, the name pinging on Matt’s radar.

“You think it could be him?” another detective says.

“I don’t know,” the woman says. “But if not, we’ve got a copycat. Better tell FBI to check his online history.”

“This doesn’t fit his profile,” the male detective says, a frown in his voice. “The previous vics were white women. This one here’s a Hispanic male.”

“What?” Karen asks in an exaggerated whisper. “What do you hear?”

“I’m listening,” Matt murmurs.

“Sorry.”

“Wait, I know this guy!” the male detective says suddenly.

“You do?” the woman asks, incredulous.

“Yeah, I saw him on the news! Hector, Hector something.” He snaps his fingers impatiently. “Alaya or whatever. He worked with Banner.”

“Banner as in Bruce Banner?” the woman repeats.

“Yeah, the Hulk. Guy’s an engineer or something.”

“What the fuck is a famous engineer doing, going around meeting up for date-rape,” the woman murmurs.

“Give a whole new meaning to the word, huh,” the male detective chuckles.

“Hey,” comes a breathless voice; Matt blinks, a woman, twenty-ish, Irish accent, rushes toward them and puts her hand on Karen’s shoulder briefly. “I got on the first train to Manhattan. Is it the guy?”

“Uh, Matt, this is Glori,” Karen says hurriedly. “Glori, Matt. My uh old boss.”

“Matt Murdock,” Matt says, extending his hand and only a little smarting from the “my old boss” remark. _That’s what you wanted_ , he reminds himself sternly.

“Glorianna O’Breen,” Glori says. Her handshake is cool and surprisingly strong. Her skin smells like raspberry lotion.

She must give Karen some kind of look, because Karen suddenly springs to talking.

“Uh, Matt here was just on his way to work,” she says in that awful voice she uses for lying. “And uh, he heard a commotion…”

“I heard a commotion and wanted to find out what’s going on,” Matt cuts in; his lying voice honestly is not that much better. He can _hear_ himself sound suspicious, but he can’t _do_ anything about it. “And then I ran into Karen…”

“Yeah, because you called,” Karen supplies quickly. “And then, then you got here.”

A beat.

“Right,” Glorianna says. She turns to Karen, hair swishing – curly maybe. “So, is it him?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Karen says, her voice going deep and shaky like it does when she’s excited. “The same MO but this time, this time the victim is a _man_.”

“And Hispanic,” Matt pipes in. They both look to him. “So I heard,” he adds belatedly. “Uh, the FBI agent assigned to the case, Angela del Toro, I know her.” He frowns, realizing he’s just backed himself into another corner. “From… lawyer… stuff,” he says weakly.

“Lawyer… stuff?” Glorianna repeats.

“Yeah,” he says, cringing. Nice going, Matt.

“Hold up,” Karen says then, saving him from digging himself even a bigger hole. “The feds are on this? Since _when_?”

“Since Heather Glenn, at the very least,” Matt says.

“Maybe they think the perp crossed the state lines,” Glorianna offers.

They all pause for a moment, struck with the same sinking realization.

“Or maybe,” Karen says slowly, “he’s done it before.”

 

*

 

Matt doesn’t make it to work that day. He leaves Becky a voicemail, like a coward, that he’s taking a “sick day.” He hates to ghost on her like that, with Walker trial starting in less than a week – he harbored a small hope that she won’t get indicted, though admittedly it was a slim chance – but he’d be useless at the office anyway. That Ringer case has crawled under his skin and won’t let go until he does something about it.

His first thought is to give Agent del Toro a house call. His second thought is, _get something on Ringer first_. Angela must be already at the precinct. He could make excuses, pull out a case out of his ass he urgently needs to speak about with an officer, to keep an ear on the things, but. That’s risky. He’s already toeing on the edge of danger, talking to an FBI agent. He doesn’t need to take more unnecessary risks. He hates sitting on his hands too.

He’s useless out there – the devil has been out till dawn every night and he still somehow has missed three _murders_ happening right in his stomping grounds. He’s got nothing from Jean DeWolff’s apartment, probably would get the same from Hector Ayala’s. Crime scene won’t tell him anything either (“No fibers in the rope marks,” Angela said. “No fingerprints either. The perp used a condom each time and washed his victims, most likely post mortem. This guy knows his forensics.”). He’s rapidly running out of options.

Except.

Matt’s always been lousy on the Internet. Drawbacks of being blind, he supposes – online experience is not really visually impaired-friendly. Still, the assistive equipment has gotten better in the recent years. He’s not digitally illiterate; though after this whole thing is over, Matt suspects he could finally put “proficient with computers” on his resume in good conscience.

He gets a hit well after midnight – has he really spent the whole day in front of the computer? – and only by a stroke of luck. The guy’s gotten smart. Careful. But the Internet is his hunting ground and like every predator, he can’t stay away for long. Soon, he’s gonna be hungry.

And so—

> **ring3r**
> 
> love when bitches beg me to stop while I choke them. but you know they’re dripping for it
> 
> they say they don’t want it, that’s when they want it the most
> 
> all sluts need to be raped. be put in their place
> 
> I had sluts ask me for it. I know how to fuck you good
> 
> interested?

Jackpot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jessica Jones mentions Angela del Toro as a great PI. I suppose in this universe Angela quits FBI somewhen in a near future and becomes a private eye ~~and White Tiger~~. (I know that JJ premiered before DD’s second season but let’s just disregard this for the sake of this story). I’m not going to fancast every single comics character that appears here, but I feel it’s important you know Tamara Tunie is Angela del Toro in my mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings.

Matt doesn’t sleep the whole night and only goes out for an hour right before the dawn, when familiar guilt gnaws enough on his stomach. The next day is Sunday, rare good luck, but he really should make a dent in the Walker case anyway. Becky’s filed motion after motion and he could at least do her the courtesy of catching up when she’s done all the work. And he’s going to, he’s not going to let her down. It’s just that he apparently has to catch up on the wonders of online fetish dating scene first.

> **ring3r**
> 
> I wanna hold you down and fuck you till you cry

It never stops being creepy, read out loud in dispassionate female voice. You get desensitized after the tenth or eleventh message, though. Mostly.

> **ring3r**
> 
> cum on your face so your tears mix with my cum
> 
> tell me how you want it
> 
> **devilinthesheets**
> 
> i want it
> 
> **ring3r**
> 
> yeah?
> 
> you want me to raw you?
> 
> make you feel me for days?
> 
> want me to rape you?

Jesus. This guy is one sick freak. Matt realizes he’s bit through his lip and makes himself stop.

> **ring3r**
> 
> say please

God.

> **devilinthesheets**
> 
> please
> 
> **ring3r**
> 
> good boy

Matt shifts uncomfortably.

> **ring3r**
> 
> you into breath play

Matt thinks about Fisk’s meaty paws tightening around his throat. No air, no air, blood bubbling at the line of the pressure, aching to burst.

> **devilinthesheets**
> 
> duno
> 
> willin to try maybe
> 
> **ring3r**
> 
> what stuff have you tried
> 
> **devilinthesheets**
> 
> ropes
> 
> light punishment
> 
> pretty tame stuff
> 
> **ring3r**
> 
> so you’re a kink virgin ;)

Matt bites his lip.

> **devilinthesheets**
> 
> is htat bad
> 
> **ring3r**
> 
> no
> 
> I like it
> 
> love having the first spin on a fresh ride, know what I’m sayin
> 
> I could show u a good time

A wave of heat crashes over his chest. Matt’s heart beats wildly in his ribcage when he writes the next words.

> **devilinthesheets**
> 
> oh really?
> 
> **ring3r**
> 
> you need someone to teach you a lesson
> 
> treat you like a dirty slut you are
> 
> **devilinthesheets**
> 
> u wanna put ur money where ur mouth is?

His fingers are slipping with sweat. He’s been shot and this is what gets to him. He doesn’t know how people do this.

> **ring3r**
> 
> when can you meet

Matt lets out a breath he’s been holding and leans back in his chair. Okay. Game on.

 

*

 

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence!”

“I need you to do the opening statement,” Matt says with no introductions.

Becky freezes halfway to the kitchenette. The broken kettle keeps on boiling loudly in stark silence with no one to flick it off.

“Are you serious.”

Matt runs his fingers through his slightly sweaty hair, grimacing apologetically.

“I know it’s late notice but—”

“The trial starts _tomorrow_ ,” Becky says, incredulous.

“I know,” Matt says. “Just—”

“You told me you had it done already,” Becky reminds him.

“I know,” Matt says again.

“I’ve been elbows deep in grunt work, I did the hearing, okay, I did jury selection, I’ve been working my _ass_ off when you were doing God knows what…”

“I know, and I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Matt says quickly. He sighs. “Look, I’ll do the closing statement, just. I need you to do me this favor, Becky. Please.”

Becky’s silent for a moment. The kettle growls menacingly.

“Alright,” Becky says at last. Matt exhales. “But you _so_ owe me for this.”

“I won’t forget it,” Matt says gratefully.

“You better not,” Becky grumbles, finally wheeling down to the kitchenette to relieve the kettle from its misery. “Come over here and help me up with the tea. I live in constant fear I’ll spill boiling water all over myself and let me tell you, the first time it happened wasn’t fun.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Matt says, jumping to help. “I suppose I should get a coffee table or something for the office, so you don’t have to struggle every time you want to use the kettle. Uh, sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it, my lawyer should serve you with discrimination suit any day now,” Becky says smugly. Matt snorts.

“Cute.”

“You should make yourself coffee while you’re at it,” Becky adds. “We’re staying after hours. You won’t escape trial prep this time.”

Matt exhales lengthily and nods, twice.

“Hit me,” he says decisively.

 

*

 

“The court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Cynthia Batzer presiding, indictment number 0316-4992, The People v. Mary Walker.”

Scraping and whispers make a wave through the crowd, rising and falling with bailiff’s words.

“Judge Batzer presided over the Castle trial,” Matt murmurs from the corner of his mouth. “She’s tough as nails but fair.”

“We might have a problem with the prosecution,” Becky murmurs back. “I faced Porter in court before. She successfully argued a fortune 1000 CEO be convicted of _facilitating murder_ , because his company sold over-the-counter kiddie drugs that were proved by independent tests to induce a stroke when taken with cough medicine, no warning on the label. Grandmother killed a three-year-old and landed his five-year-old sister in hospital on life support.” Becky’s voice grows agitated, whisper barely audible with brimming emotion. “Two counts reckless endangerment, two count criminal facilitation, one count fraudulent concealment. Jury took less than an hour.”

“Damn,” Matt mutters.

“I heard she moved to criminal court because she was bored,” Becky continues in half-tone. “Nina Porter doesn’t care about right and wrong. She’s gonna play dirty to get a conviction.”

“We’re just gonna have to make sure the jury sees the justice is on our side,” Matt says decisively.

“Are the People ready to proceed with opening statements?” Judge Batzer prompts then.

“Ready, Your Honor,” Porter says without a pause.

She stands up slowly, deliberately, her rapid-fire heartbeat pulsating in Matt’s ears. She _reeks_ of adrenaline.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Porter begins, voice ringing out like a bell in the breathless silence. Her pumps, four-inch stilettos, sharp like ice picks, reverberate on the court’s hardwood floor. “Your Honor.” Here she inclines her head toward Judge Batzer, maybe lets her lips curl in a slight smile. There’s more than professional respect between them. “The defendant stands here charged with murder in the second degree,” she states, gesturing widely at where Mary is seated.

She takes a long pause then, obviously enjoying holding the undivided attention of the room.

“You’re going to see through the evidence presented in the duration of this trial that the defendant acted with malicious intent when she picked up the murder weapon and killed the victim.”

Porter stops, half-a-second.

“You’re going to be told by her legal team,” a nod toward their table, “that the defendant acted solely in self-defense. But the law on self-defense is clear,” she says, _clear_ strong and uncompromising as a conviction. “United States v. Peterson: for self-defense justification, defender must reasonably believe that they’re in imminent danger of death or serious bodily harm.” Porter makes an emphatic pause. “Reasonably,” she repeats.

She makes a sharp turn. “Now, the defense will tell you that the defendant was traumatized by the victim. The defense will tell you,” her voice rises with force, “that she was so traumatized, that in her warped state of mind she didn’t see that the danger had already passed and believed that the victim would continue to hurt her.” Her voice gets lower then, as if speaking friend to friend, a grim but necessary awakening.

“But the law doesn’t recognize the defendant’s right to use deadly force if _in her mind_ she was in danger,” Porter says plainly. “It doesn’t matter what the defendant believed. What _matters_ is, would an ordinary citizen – would any of _you_ , if you were in her shoes, believe that using deadly force was justifiable in this situation.”

Porter opens her arms, a simple but powerful gesture.

“The answer is – _no_.”

She makes a slow circle around the floor, speaking factually now, crisp and on-point.

“The facts of the case are as follows: the defendant was raped and beaten by the victim. No one disputes that. It was a tragedy – and, if the victim was still alive, if the defendant hasn’t taken away his right to due process, he’d be in this court right now and believe me, I’d make sure he’d prosecuted to the full extent of the law.” Branding a rape victim a criminal against civil rights and in the same breath painting herself as a fighter for rape victim’s cause, that’s nice. “But he can’t be here,” Porter continues, “because the defendant has murdered him in cold blood.”

She raises her hand, counting out.

“The victim was struck in the back of the head and beaten repeatedly until his skull caved in. He wasn’t attacking the defendant – in fact, he was _leaving_ when the defendant chose to hit him with his back turned.” Porter shakes her head, twisting her lips in derision, words coming out ugly and mean. “It wasn’t self-defense. It was revenge. The defendant decided to take the law in her own hands and levied against her victim the highest punishment.”

Porter comes to a stop in front of the jury box, speaking directly to them now.

“That’s no justice; that’s vigilantism. No person is above the law – and you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have a duty to uphold these laws which are the pillars that hold civilized society.” Porter’s voice colors with emotion, intimacy. She sounds almost sincere, only her steady, ruthless heart unmasking her to Matt for what she is. “You _must_ render the only just verdict.” Her face turns slowly, as if she’s looking into each juror’s eyes. “Guilty.”

She gives one last respectful nod to the judge and goes to take her seat.

“Nice show,” ADA Perez, second chair, mutters to her. Matt imagines her hiding a smirk behind one manicured hand. Sharp.

“Let’s hear from team handicapable,” Porter murmurs, amused hiss; Perez snickers. Matt grits his teeth.

“Defense? You ready to make your statement?” Judge Batzer says.

Becky takes a shaky breath, small.

“You got this,” Matt whispers.

Becky straightens in her chair, forcing her lungs to take a breath in and a breath out, steady.

“We’re ready, Your Honor,” she declares, and only her heartbeat wavers a little.

She wheels to the front, closer to the jury, and takes one final breath. _Here goes_.

“Mary Walker was raped,” Becky states simply.

She takes a moment, letting the Jurors absorb the gravity of the statement.

“She was stalked to her place of work, a preschool where she teaches special needs children, and raped.”

“Oh that’s _cute_ ,” Porter whispers to Perez. Matt tightens the grip on his cane.

“She wasn’t just beaten,” Becky carries on. “She was _brutalized_. You’ll be presented with the medical report from when Mary was admitted to hospital afterwards, so I’m going to spare you the ugly details. You don’t want to hear it twice,” she adds ruefully, her voice tearing acidic at the edges. She’s _good_ , Matt thinks. Maybe they do have a shot at this. “She was raped and then she was raped again with a wooden plunger.” Empathic, unflinching, adamant. “The prosecution wants you to believe that these facts are irrelevant to the crime Mary Walker is accused of, but I’m going to show you through the course of this trial that they are _essential_ to comprehending this case,” Becky says with passion. Matt finds himself nodding unwittingly.

Becky takes a breath and starts again, voice stronger and clearer now.

“Under New York Penal Law one can use deadly force in self-defense if one reasonably believes the other person is committing or attempting to commit a forcible rape,” Becky states for the jury. “And that is precisely what happened. Now, the prosecution insinuated that the rape was already over when Mary Walker struck her attacker, but how can we assert that beyond reasonable doubt?”

She rolls closer to the jury, reprising Porter’s intimate performance. But Becky is not acting this time; her emotions ring loud and true.

“We don’t know what happened in that bathroom. The only people who know that are Mary Walker and her rapist.” Becky raises her head, voice growing in strength. “But we know this – Mary Walker was brutally attacked and raped multiple times, and she had every reason to believe that her plight was not over.”

Matt digs his fingernails into his skin. He wonders if Becky’s plight carries on, if she’s being raped all over again every morning when she gets into her chair.

“Look into your heart,” Becky says softly, “and ask yourself – if I were Mary Walker, wouldn’t I do the same thing?”

A small murmur rolls through the row of heartbeats; she’s touched at least some of them.

“Don’t put Mary through more than she’s already suffered,” Becky appeals in a quiet voice. “She’s not guilty.”

 

Porter catches up to them in the hallway, stab stab stab of her stilettos on the wooden floor.

“That was a pretty speech,” she says without preamble, something about her mockingly cynical. “You did a nice enough job appealing to the jury’s sympathy, seeing as you don’t have any case.”

“Thanks,” Becky says curtly. She doesn’t say anything more, her silence pointed.

Porter lets out a breathy laugh.

“I don’t like to pass on a good trial but under the circumstances in this case I’m willing to deal. Your client pleads guilty to voluntary manslaughter,” Porter says. “Five to twenty-five years, if she’s lucky she’ll be out on parole in year and a half. Not bad for a murderer.” She adds slyly, “I’ll even recommend leniency.”

“No deal,” Becky says shortly. Matt blinks. _Hang on_ , he thinks stupidly.

Porter taps one manicured finger on her hip, slanted challengingly.

“She bashed his brains in with a wooden plunger,” she says, her voice like a quirked eyebrow. “She doesn’t contest it. I’d be surprised if takes the jury more than an hour to render the guilty verdict.”

“He raped her,” Becky says, a quiet rage simmering under the surface.

“It doesn’t give her the right to kill him,” Porter says, throwing up her arms theatrically. “Sympathetic as you may be to her situation, her act was criminal in the eyes of the law.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t be,” Becky murmurs.

Porter is silent for a moment, appraising.

“Take the deal, Rebecca,” she says coolly. “Or I _will_ obliterate you in court.” Her voice turns venomous, mean. “Again.”

Becky holds her position, unyielding.

“Counsellor.” Porter nods her head at Matt in a sardonic gesture and strides away.

“ _Whoof_ ,” Matt exhales, turning to Becky with raised eyebrows. What just happened?

“Yeah, she’s a piece of work.” Becky bites her lower lip, dry chapped skin crunching with thick saliva. “We’re in trouble, Matt.”

“You seemed to handle yourself pretty well there,” Matt comments.

“That was just battle one,” Becky says, low and bleak. “Porter is gearing up for the war. And you know she doesn’t care about the casualties.”

“Let’s get to work,” Matt murmurs.

 

*

 

They meet in a dank, grubby alley behind the club, the smell of piss and come in his nostrils and dull bassline pulsating from inside like a booming heart. Matt wonders if this is how they all started, dancing at a shitty club downtown, shots of tequila to loosen up inhibitions, too-loud laugh and lax limbs on the way back to his apartment. Matt wonders if they all, too, slipped to this alley through the back door, shimmied down the wall, mouth full of sweat-tinged length and knees bruising from wet gravel. A foretaste.

Matt keeps to the dark, waiting, standing still like a stone sentinel. The guy can’t see his face. He doesn’t want to scare him off, either. So now he waits. He’s good at that – waiting and listening for a sign.

There’s someone—there’s someone _watching_ _him_ at the mouth of the alley. The rain hangs in the air, not raindrops but a soaking mist, slithering into your hair and lingering at your clothing – the spring is awaking and it’s miserable, great time it came; the world on fire is dim then, blurring at the edges, sound vibrations coming from everywhere and nowhere at once and smells fading into the ever-present mold. Matt _should’ve_ spotted him. The someone is just standing there, still, more still than Matt, soundless and smelling like rain. He can’t get a read on them.

Then they step out into the darkness.

“Hello, Daredevil.”

A fist, cold, tightens around his throat and then scalding heat scrapes from inside. Matt swallows, swallows, and circles the figure cautiously.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I’ve been expecting you for a while.” Voice level, almost _polite_. Male, definitely male – early thirties or, or maybe forties, he, he’s not sure. No accent. A colorless voice.

Why can’t he get a read on this guy?

“Well, you have me.” Matt throws up his hands. “What’d you wanna do now?”

The man, Ringer, doesn’t move. He thinks he’s _smiling_.

“What did you come here for?” He sounds like a shrink.

Matt comes to a stop, muscles tensing.

“I came here to stop you.”

“Wrong,” Ringer states calmly and moves.

It begins like this.

Matt goes to cut his legs under him but Ringer is fast, jumps over his sweeping kick without as much as a sweat. Pulls Matt’s arm in a lock he barely escapes – that would be bye bye good elbow – and Matt uses their closeness to his advantage, throws the guy over his shoulder, down.

He doesn’t know how it happens. The guy is down but then he kicks Matt’s knee and Matt slips on a puddle and then the world flips. Now Matt is down and Ringer is up. Everything smells like rain. He pushes back but the man is stronger than him, stronger than he estimated. Bigger too – not as big as Fisk but Matt thinks about him, how he pushed and pushed and pushed and Fisk wouldn’t give, like Ringer won’t give now. No breaklines, no Hail Marys this time. Matt can struggle but he’ll only cut his knees on the gravel for his effort. He’s a toy in Ringer’s hands.

Earthy, salt taste sits heavily on Matt’s tongue. The rain is laced with something dark underneath, something he knows but can’t place. Something off-key. He can’t get a read on Ringer – his heartbeat beats like a clock, his hold on Matt is cool and unyielding. No sweat, no rotting pieces of food trapped between his teeth, no smell-traces of excrements on his fingers. He just smells like rain and…

Arousal.

Wait, Matt thinks. This isn’t right. He’s not supposed to be this—forced to his knees, cowering. A victim. There are rules – batterers and battered. Saviors and those who need to be saved. He’s not Jean DeWolff. These things don’t happen to people, men like him. This is not happening. This is not happening. He can’t—

The zipper—Matt thrashes backwards. Bile jumps to his throat, sick, sick smell pushing the air out of his lungs. He jerks his head side to side but it won’t budge, a hand at the back of his skull is like stone and he can’t move, can’t make his vocal chords work. He tries to grind his teeth but two meaty fingers corkscrew at the back of his teeth, like he’s a horse, forcing it open, _accessible_. He’s still in his stupid—his stupid Daredevil armor, kneepads cushioning his skin, his useless helmet protecting his skull, for what good it does him. His baton is still at his thigh. He reaches for it but Ringer kicks his hand, brutal, sends the baton clattering down the alley. Matt’s hands are free – free and he’s pinned like a butterfly on display, kneeling under an itching electric light at the mouth of one of the back alleys he haunts, a protector of Hell’s Kitchen. He thinks he should call out for help and hopes _to_ _God_ there’s no one around to witness this.

“You know you were always gonna end up like this, on your knees,” Ringer pants and pushes in.

Matt chokes – the smell, the thickness, the sudden _invasion_ is too much. He gets coarse, rough pubic hair shoved into his nose. His mouth pulls at the corners from the stretch. Spit dribbles down his lower lip and drops on the ground, slow like honey. He can’t swallow; air pinches his chest, brimming to burst. He waves his arms frantically, grabbing at nothing.

 _Breathe_ , Matt tells himself. He lets out a forced exhale through his nostrils, aspirates musky smell and pubic hair. The cock presses on, pushes into his throat – it slides back and Matt coughs, swallows precome and saliva, swallows. His throat is raw like it is after pneumonia. No time to soothe the pain – Ringer thrusts back in and Matt forces his jaw to go slack, forces himself to swallow again, breathes in out, in out through his nose. Tearing pain is easy to ignore; he’s been doing it for years. It’s just a matter of readjustment.

He thinks he maybe should be biting down. He thinks he should be clawing at Ringer’s hands, grabbing his dick, yank it hard enough to rip. His limbs are crawling with ants, ice-frozen. His belly is stewing with hot sick-guilt. If he moves, something will break.

“Fucking bitch,” Ringer pants; his steady heartbeat wavers a little, climbing. “That’s right, that’s what a bitch like you is good for.”

Matt whines around his cock, breaths in, swallows. The corners of his eyes are leaking with tears. His hand is twitching to touch his dick. His painfully hard dick, because he’s a sick freak that gets off to this. Ringer’s grip loosens on his jaw, he rocks into the thrust, like he knows he doesn’t have to hold him down to have Matt right where he wants him.

Treat you like a dirty slut you are.

Ringer groans, vibrations running down to Matt’s tongue. A sharp spike of come crashes against the roof of his mouth. The cock softens, slips out of his mouth, come leaking out with it. It trickles down his lip and chin, pooling a stain on his breastplate, drool mixed with semen.

Matt crashes down, a marionette with its strings slit. He blinks. He can’t smell the rain.

A soft finger pad traces his jaw, lower lip. Matt jerks away violently. His jaw twitches. He starts shaking and can’t stop.

“Thank you,” Ringer says softly. His touch disappears. Matt blinks and blinks, his eyelashes clumped with mist.

He still can’t smell the rain.

He tries not to breathe; but the come smell is not really out there, it’s been washed away with water and sharp stench of cat piss. The smell slipped into his nostrils, lay sick and musky at the back of his tongue, sank into the soft tissue there. The smell is inside him now. He can never get it out.

_Isn’t this what you came here for?_

“No,” Matt rasps.

Why _is_ he here?

He needs, he needs to not be here.

Matt slips on wet ground, his palms scraping on asphalt through the hard material of his gloves.

All sounds are out of whack. He thinks he’s going to be sick – he doubles over, hand smacked on the wall, but nothing would come out. He claws at his hair, a clump stays in his fist. The ache comes like from the other side of a wall. The world on fire has titled a degree out off its axis.

He needs to have his head examined.

 

“Matt?”

Curled on the fire escape like a discarded blood-clotted fetus, clinging to the safe harbor of a familiar window. He’s been here, before. He swore he was done with that, dragging people down with him. But this old dog, it seems, is fresh out of new tricks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Claire Temple says.

She opens the window, for what’s it worth – he wouldn’t be surprised if she slammed it in his face and sent him back to whatever hell he came from. Wouldn’t begrudge her either. Last time Matt went to her for help—last time, he got her thrown out of a window, nearly killed a gruesome death – again – and splattered with her dying friend’s blood. And cost her a job. He was done making Claire mop up his bloody mess of a life, he thought he was.

“Sorry, I was…” He stops. Matt shakes his head and turns around, one leg not off the window ledge yet. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Whoa, hold on.” Claire grabs his arm. “Matt. Matt, look at me—uh. Sit down.” She drags him down, leads him gently to a seat propped against the wall. Cayenne, Himalayan salt, lingering roasted meat. Kitchen. “ _What_ happened?”

“I was in a fight,” Matt says. “I got roughed up. It happens, it’s not that bad, I don’t know why…”

“Sit,” Claire orders him. Pushes him back down by his shoulders, gently but adamantly. “Where are you hurt?” she asks practically.

“I’m not—I don’t know…” Matt babbles.

“Okay, Matt?” Claire crouches in front of him, looks into his face even though he can’t see her expression. “I’m going to do a quick exam. Just so we make sure you’re okay. Is that alright?”

Matt averts his face. A shrug.

Claire sighs heavily and pushes herself up on her thighs. Her dry, warm hands slide to the catches of his suit, clinical and comforting. He makes himself relax, drops his taut muscles to allow for her poking and prodding.

“There’s this guy,” Matt says suddenly.

Claire picks up her head, _hmm?_

“He’s, umh. He’s been terrorizing Hell’s Kitchen recently. He’s uh. He’s a serial killer.” Matt gives her a painful smile. “I had a run in with him tonight.”

“Matt,” Claire says.

“No—no, I… I know what you’re going to say.” He waves his hand vaguely, tries for a smile again. Drops it, shakes his head. “Save it. I just can’t—I can’t not do anything when my city’s in danger and I have the means to, I can’t—” His voice dies on him.

“You know this is not your job,” Claire says, tilting her face up at him. He imagines a weariness settling on her face, echoing her voice.

“Yes, it is,” Matt whispers.

There’s no more words to say. They’ve wasted enough already.

“Okay,” Claire says softly, standing up. “I did a check-up, you have a few bad bruises and scratches and you should probably watch that knee for a few days but no major trauma.” She counts out vaguely on her fingers, not really keeping count. “There’s bad bruising around your spine but it’s started to heal so I assume that’s old.” She puts her hands on her hips, shifts her weight to one leg. “You could’ve come to me, you know.”

Matt drops his head.

“You didn’t sign up to be my night nurse,” he murmurs. “It’s not fair to you, Claire.” She steps up close to him, slowly.

“But you came to me tonight,” she prompts.

“I’m—it was a mistake,” he whispers jerkily. “I—overreacted. I shouldn’t have…”

“I’m not throwing you out, Matt,” Claire says, voice like a frown. “I just want to know what the hell is going on with you.”

Matt opens his mouth. Closes it. He shakes his head.

“You knocked on my window half past ass o’ clock, I think I deserve some explanation.” Claire crosses her arms over her chest, shoulders drawn up, tense. “Tell me,” she says emphatically.

“You know how he finds his victims,” Matt picks up abruptly, cheery. “This guy, Ringer. He advertises on the web. Looks for a date that _wants_ to be raped.”

“Jesus.” Claire leans against her radiator heavily. “Who’d _want_ that?”

Matt shrugs.

“There’s plenty sick bastards in the world.”

“I don’t think they’re the ones that are sick,” Claire counters.

“Sometimes…” Matt licks his lips. “Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you’re really doing it to them.”

“What?” Claire says, sharp, thrown.

Matt shakes his head.

Where did that come from? He swears he’s heard it somewhere before.

“When you let people do sick stuff to you…” he carries on hesitantly. “You make them guilty. Because you’re the reason they did something terrible. And you’re using them for, for your twisted fantasies or, some fucked-up self-harm attempt by proxy—Same as they’re using you.”

“What are you talking about,” Claire murmurs, incredulous.

“I should go.” He stands up and goes for the window; he slows down, realizes his hand stays hovering mid-air.

“Matt.” Claire’s voice goes unbearably gentle. “What did he do to you?”

“Claire…”

“No, don’t give me that bullshit, you came here with couple scratches and looking like you just came out of a warzone,” Claire fumes, worry and frustration fighting in her voice, turbulent. “I _know_ something’s up.”

Matt shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“It’s nothing.”

“Hey, it’s _not_ nothing.” She touches his arm tentatively, hesitates. “Did… Did he…?”

“He didn’t _rape_ me if that’s what you’re insinuating,” Matt says sharply.

Claire takes a breath.

“Is this about you being a guy? Because…”

“This is about me not playing a victim when I’m not one!” Matt bursts. “We fought, he got the upper hand, that’s what happened. I got thrashed a bit, but it doesn’t count any more than when a petty drug dealer gets one over me.”

“Counts as what?” Claire asks softly.

Matt exhales exasperatedly; his lower lip is quivering. He feels hard and very brittle.

Claire spreads her palms out, cease-fire.

“Okay,” she says conciliatorily. “I’ll get off your case. Just,” Claire hesitates. “Be kind with yourself, Matt.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. It’s not really a yes. They both know it.

Claire nods her head anyway, trying to convince herself to not worry, maybe. She combs her hair behind her ear – she let it grow out. It reminds him of Karen.

“You’ve got a nice apartment here,” Matt pipes up. He makes a sweeping gesture, hangs his arm. “Smells nice.”

Claire sways from her hips, turning to him again.

“Thanks.”

Matt offers her a smile that’s more of an acknowledgement than a real emotion and climbs on the window ledge.

“I won’t be stopping by.”

“Matt.” He turns back to her. “You ever checked back on that lawyer friend of yours?” she asks.

“We’re…” Matt trails off, gut-punched by surprise. “Our law firm broke up. We’re history.”

He can’t see Claire’s face, but he wishes she’d stop looking at him like that.

“I’m your friend, Matt,” Claire murmurs. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Matt says softly. He swings himself out of Claire’s window and into the sharp spring air. “But I’ve never been a friend to anybody.”

 

*

 

A knock comes after midnight. Matt feels around for the clock. Eight am. The clocks don’t work right now.

He inhales the vapid flowery smell seeping through the cheap rusty door. Soft knuckles scrape on the other side, again. Matt thinks about ignoring it and opens the door.

They stand in a silence for a beat, a standstill.

“Claire called,” Karen says at last.

Matt doesn’t say anything, his empty stare somewhere over her left ear. He knows it can be disconcerting. He doesn’t care.

“Can I come in?” Karen asks after a moment in a small voice.

“Why,” Matt says flatly.

He’s leaning on the doorframe, heavy, blocking the entrance; he doesn’t shift to the side.

“Look, Matt.” Karen pulls her hair behind her ears nervously. “This Ringer case… I don’t think it’s good for you.”

“You asked me to look into it,” Matt reminds her tonelessly.

“I know,” Karen exhales. She jerks her chin up; he imagines she’s looking at him, fierce, before she remembers that doesn’t work on him. “And I’m asking you to drop it.”

Matt sticks out his jaw.

“Like you will?”

A beat.

“Yeah,” Matt mutters, twisting his lips, tart grimace. “That’s what I thought.”

His arms weight down on the doorframe; Matt slips down, grabs the door handle. Pulls it.

“Matt. Matt, wait—” Karen starts.

“What,” Matt bites out, bitter and unable to stop from lashing out. “What, Karen? What can I do for you now? Solve another murder so you can sell more papers? Find you a new serial killer so when I do you can go, ‘oh, sorry, Matt, never mind, drop this case forever?’”

“That’s not fair,” Karen murmurs, averting her face.

“Yeah,” Matt huffs derisively. He crosses his arms around his chest; he forgets what he wanted to say.

“I worry about you, Matt,” Karen mumbles, not raising up her head. “I just don’t want you to go out and do something stupid.”

“It’s not up to _you_ , Karen!” Matt exclaims. “You can’t—you’re not my _mother_ , why does everyone act like what I do on my time somehow concerns them?” Karen shrinks before him, seems to sink with his low growl. “Here’s a newsflash – Daredevil doesn’t work for you. You need to accept that this is my life and, yeah, I can risk it if I want to. But you—you have no claim on it.”

His chest is on fire; his hands are shaking. Matt tightens one useless hand on the door handle and jerks shut his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you’re really doing it to them” comes from _Sharp Objects_ by my writing goddess Gillian Flynn. READ IT. Honestly, I can’t rec her enough. (Now also a brilliant HBO series starring Amy Adams! I’m obsessed.)


	6. Chapter 6

The night after, Matt stands on a roof ledge for hours and listens.

He lets the sounds of his city roll over him; sirens and screams. An old lullabye. Gunshots. Always gunshots.

A fight breaks out a few blocks from Josie’s. Both men wound up with testosterone and alcohol. They’ll miss a couple shots, maybe get one or two – break a nose, black an eye. Most damage they’ll do is puke all over some poor bastard’s shoes.

Down south – _you’re not holding out on me, man, are you? Are you? Cause you know what I do with sonuvabitches that try and cut me on my money…_ small-time crime boss giving his lackey a shakedown. He could burst in there beat them both black and blue. Or he could let them beat on themselves.

Rap-thud of hollow two-inch heels reverberating through a back alley. Matt cocks his head. The heels slow and linger, kick up the air circling back. Expecting something. Someone.

Despite himself Matt follows the sound, _rap-thud_ , _rap-thud_ , impatient, until he can hear unruly locks of hair being blown away and smell a fake minty deodorant.

“Come on,” Angela del Toro mutters. “Come _on_ , where the devil are you?”

Matt almost smiles.

He leaps to a roof over, rolls to cushion his landing. Angela twitches shortly.

“Bruce…?” she says quietly. She reaches slowly to her belt; slap of leather, thick fingernails tapping a trigger. “Where are you?”

Matt doesn’t let out a sound, stilling.

“Daredevil?” Angela says, slowly stepping down into the alley, gun-first. “Devil, Bruce, whatever you want to be called… Do you have anything on Ringer for me?” Matt bites the inside of his mouth. “I know you’re out there.”

She cranes her head up; Matt cowers, even though he knows it’s stupid. She can’t see him here.

Angela lowers her gun and puts it back in the holster.

“Dammit,” she mutters.

Matt releases the air he’s been holding.

He can’t avoid Angela forever. He’s being self-indulgent. Cowardly. He approached her in the first place, _he_ wanted to work with her on—

Ringer.

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? At last he has something to update her on. The corner of his mouth rises in an ugly smile. “Yeah, so I set up a sting I didn’t tell you about and it blew up in my face spectacularly, I got humiliated and let Ringer escape and now I’m feeling sorry for myself.” Somehow he doesn’t think this would go over that well.

He’s not going to stick his tail between his legs and run. He’ll talk to Angela. Just… not tonight.

Back to watching the streets. At least you can be useful for _something_ , he thinks meanly.

More bar fights, neighbor squabble, kids kicking down trash cans – creak _boom_ there they go scattering its wilted contents at some unlucky fast-food back door – laughing. Matt’s head hurts. He needs a real crime. He can’t go around playing Vice, he’s so tired, he can’t bother with this crap, not tonight…

He needs to take out a real perp.

A blow of lancinating air brings an echo of a girl’s moaning. He thinks pleasure at first, but it breaks with a wet sound, she whispers, _don’t please_ —

Matt’s halfway across the city in few breaths.

The guy has her up against the wall, legs spread. Girl’s skirt is torn up – first time this year it’s warm enough for leaving your legs exposed and that’s what she gets. The man – stocky, wheezing, stinking like a public toilet – is raping her from behind. Groaning hotly every time the girl’s throat catches with a sob.

No plan. Matt’s hands tighten like vice around the rapist’s trachea and yank him back violently, tripping on his still pulled-down pants. Good. Matt clenches his fists until the man splutters and his veins threaten to burst, satisfying, knees him in the kidney so he falls hard on the ground. He brings his heavy boot to the rapist’s pathetic dick, once, twice – the man mewls like a slaughtered pig.

“Please,” he rasps.

Then Matt has the baton in his hands and he’s raising it up and the blows come; gut, back, face, squish and crack, squish and crack, blood bubbling at the back of his tongue and cries of pain oh-so-sweet in his ears.

There’s another person crying. Matt stops with the baton mid-swing, cocks his head. The girl has slid down the wall, has her shaking arms wrapped around the tattered remains of her skirt. Her cheek is scrubbed raw; the tears are only making it worse.

“Get out of here,” Matt growls. “Go to the 18th precinct and tell them what happened.”

The girl’s mouth is trembling, stuttering on a wail.

“ _Do it_ ,” Matt hisses.

She reaches out a shaky hand to prop herself up; her nails scrape dully on the cement wall. Her knees buckle under her but she regains her footing, sucks in a long, jerky breath, and stands up, hunching protectively in on herself. She blinks at him, eyelashes smacking all stick and wet together.

Then she takes off.

Matt takes the account of the perp. He’s bleeding, copper mixing with dew. His ribs crunch, broken. Broke a hip too. Skull fracture, most likely.

He kicks the rapist again. The man howls, curling around his middle like a wounded animal. Matt finds that he’s not sorry.

He spits at the ground and somersaults up a fire escape. A patrol’s bound to pick him up sooner or later. In his state the guy’s not going anywhere. Anyway, his job here is done.

It’s dawning. Matt drifts back home, tentative, to a shower where he can wash the last remnants of the devil away. He’s got court in two hours.

 

*

 

“The defense calls Dr. Linda Carter to the stand.”

Linda Carter smells like sweat-sour drugstore perfume; she washed her hair recently, but it’s already flattened and frizzled at the edges, which she tried to conceal by putting them up in a messy chignon. She straightens uncomfortably on the stand, taps her well-worn pump on the back of her calf, pantyhose stuttering against it. She has an appearance of professional but fretful.

“Dr. Carter, you treated Mary Walker when she was admitted to the hospital the day of her rape, is that correct?” Becky asks; she wanted to question this witness herself. Matt scrapes his nails on the back of his knuckles, tries to swallow the overwhelming feeling of uselessness. He could just as well disappear.

Carter curls her fingers into the hem of her skirt below her knee and uncurls it, compulsive.

She clears her throat. “Uhm, yes, that is correct.”

Becky nods her head slowly, making a deliberate circle with her chair, as if pondering her next question.

“Could you describe your overall impression of Ms. Walker at the time of her arrival?”

“I’d describe her condition as serious,” Carter says crisply. Her leg stops bouncing, her palms smoothen on her lap; she feels more at comfort speaking of this. “She had a concussion and had to have numerous stitches to her face,” Carter continues, emotionless but trustworthy. A reliable expert witness. Matt digs his fingernails into the skin. “The vaginal trauma was extensive so it required surgery.”

Mary Walker sits unmoved at his right side, her heartbeat sluggish. Not all there.

“Dr. Carter,” Becky stops in front of the witness stand. “This is a copy of the medical report you’ve written describing Mary’s injuries, which she agreed to have read here in the court.” Becky raises the paper file held in her hand. “Could you read the highlighted passage?”

There’s a moment of consternation when everyone realizes that Becky doesn’t reach high enough to hand it over to the doc; finally the bailiff jumps up to assist her.

“Thank you,” Becky says, blowing off a lock of hair from her face. Rattled; it put her off her stride. “Doctor, if you will.”

Carter swallows over a dry throat, wets her lips.

“Multiple contusions and lacerations to the head and the facial region; the patient required seven sutures,” she reads out. The paper crinkles. “Deep abrasions to both elbows and friction burns to the insides of hands… Tearing to the vaginal walls consistent with blunt object trauma, most likely a thick wooden pole.” She puts down the report and raises her face. “Patient was admitted with concussion. Recommended staying overnight for observation.”

Matt pinches shut his eyes; the courtroom air is heavy and stale and it’s hard to breathe.

“Is that the report you wrote on Mary Walker the day of the rape?” Becky asks after a beat, letting the words ring out in the courtroom.

“Y-yes,” Carter says, halted.

Becky nods again, pensive.

“Seven sutures,” she repeats at last. “That seems like a lot. Why did she need so many stitches?”

Perez stands up from the prosecution table, unhurried.

“Objection,” he says lazily. “How many times the counsel is going to drive the same point?”

“Wrap it up, Ms. Blake,” Judge Batzer reproaches.

Becky raises her hand apologetically. Perez sinks back down to his seat, propping up his ankle in a smug posture.

“Is it true that Ms. Walker had to have splinters surgically removed from inside her?” Becky presses.

“Your Honor,” Perez objects, whiny.

“I’m simply trying to establish my client’s state at the time of the crime she’s accused of,” Becky appeals to the court.

“Ms. Blake, I think you’ve made your point,” Judge Batzer says with mild annoyance.

Becky inclines her head, her chest pinching with hot indignation.

“Nothing further,” she murmurs.

She wheels down to their table, dissatisfied. Matt squeezes her arm.

Porter uncrosses her legs and drops her sharp stilettos on the hardwood floor.

“Dr. Carter, how long have you been practicing medicine?” she begins nonchalantly.

“Uh,” Carter stutters, thrown. “Over a decade.”

Porter paces slowly in front of her table, looking down as if considering that, rap-rap-rap shaking Matt’s legs to the very bone.

“And how many rape victims would you estimate you’ve treated over the years?” she asks finally.

“Objection, calls for speculation,” Becky protests.

“Your Honor, it’s not unreasonable for the witness to give us an approximate number,” Porter says instantly. “It goes to establishing her credibility as an expert on treatment of rape victims.”

Judge Batzer hesitates for a beat.

“Overruled,” she finally decides.

Becky lets out a quiet huff.

“Dr. Carter?” Porter prompts.

Carter opens her mouth and closes it, unsure of herself. “Uh…” she stammers. “I don’t—I don’t know the exact number…”

“Give or take,” Porter says, a hint of humor.

Carter swallows, throat bobbing.

“I’d say… hundreds by now.” Porter nods decisively.

“Was the defendant’s condition at the time she was admitted unusual for a case of rape?” she prods further. Matt clenches his teeth; he doesn’t like where she’s going with this.

Carter blinks.

“Unusual…?” she repeats.

“Rarely observed in rape victims,” Porter clarifies. Becky exhales angrily at his side.

“Um…” Carter turns her face in Becky’s direction as if asking for guidance. “Her condition was severe but… I’ve treated many rape victims admitted with similar injuries or in some cases more extensive than Mary’s.”

“So…” Porter presses.

“I wouldn’t say her state was unusual, no,” Carter admits tentatively.

“I see,” Porter says. She comes to a sharp stop right in front of the witness. “And how many victims that you’ve treated have killed their rapists?”

“Your Honor!” Becky exclaims.

“Withdrawn,” Porter says immediately. Matt’s hit with a sudden spike of deep antipathy toward her. “Dr. Carter, in the medical report you’ve written on the defendant, it states she was admitted with friction burns on the insides of her hands.”

“Yes, that is correct,” Carter says questioningly.

Porter gives her a short nod.

“What, in your professional opinion, could have caused those injuries?”

“The direction of the burns runs horizontal to the palmar digital crease.” Carter raises her hand facing out, tracing the line where the palm meets the fingers. “There were corresponding abrasions on the middle and proximal phalanxes of the fingers,” here she indicates the second and the third pad of her index finger, “consistent with repeated up and down friction, like so.” She curls her palm slightly and retraces the path of the burn with the fingers of her other hand – from the outer edge of palm upwards and then back again, repeats it a few more times.

She lowers her hands.

“I’d say the burns were made by a cylindrical object approximately two inches in diameter. Wooden, most likely.” She raises her hand again, mimicking holding something oblong in her palm. “See, if the object was thinner than two inches, there would be abrasions on the distal phalanx as well, but that’s not the case.”

“What kind of object could that be?” Porter asks.

Carter hesitates.

“It could be a chair leg or some kind of a rod. A polished stick, maybe.”

“Like,” Porter backtracks to the prosecution table and retrieves a bagged object from the stack of documents. She raises it to the doctor, thick plastic crinkling. “Like the murder weapon?”

“People’s exhibit A,” she adds to the jury.

“Possibly,” Carter allows.

Porter nods, satisfied.

“To summarize,” she picks up, “the defendant has friction burns on the insides of her hands, likely from picking up the murder weapon and swinging it up and down multiple times, like so,” Porter mimics batting down the plunger, again and again; an uneasy murmur rises over the gallery. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Carter says tentatively.

“How many times would the defendant have to swing the plunger to get the resulting friction burns?” Porter prods.

“It’s hard to say,” Carter states. “But judging by the severity of the abrasions… I’d say, no less than a couple dozen times.”

“A couple dozen times,” Porter repeats, voice raising with incredulity. _Come on_ , Becky murmurs. Porter makes a sharp turn, setting down the bagged evidence back on the table. “Doctor, are you familiar with the death report of the defendant’s alleged rapist?” She inclines her head toward the judge. “People’s exhibit D,” she adds matter-of-factly.

“ _Alleged_ , are you kidding me,” Becky mutters.

“Yes, I’ve read it,” Carter says.

“The cause of death was blunt head force trauma,” Porter says, not really a question.

“Yes.”

Porter pauses, spreading out her palms, questioning.

“How many times was the victim hit in the head?” she asks.

“Well,” Carter draws out. “That’s… Hard to say. The damage to the skull was significant.”

“Your best estimation?” Porter pushes.

“I’d estimate… a couple dozen times,” Carter says and then stops, realizing what she has said. Matt bites the inside of his lip.

“And which blow, to your best knowledge, was fatal?”

“It could’ve been any one of them,” Carter says. “With the damage sustained… it’s impossible to rule at this point.”

“Any one of them,” Porter echoes, gesturing around her. “So, is it in fact possible that it was the first or the fifth’s one?”

“I’m not sure…” Carter starts.

“Dr. Carter, were any of the blows given _after_ the victim was already dead?” Porter says over her.

The courtroom holds its breath for a taut moment.

“Yes,” Carter says quietly. “Some of the injuries suggests they have occurred post mortem.”

“Goddammit,” Matt whispers.

“Was the victim struck when he has turned to leave?” Porter asks loudly.

“Objection, leading the witness!” Becky exclaims breathless with fury.

“I’ll rephrase,” Porter says, waving her hand. “What does the trajectory of the blow tell you?”

“The deceased was struck in the back of his head,” Carter says. “Some of the injuries are consistent with the attacker standing behind him.” She pauses. “Most of them have been dealt from above.”

“Meaning, when the victim was lying face-down on the ground?” Porter clarifies for her.

“Y-es,” Carter says.

“Did the victim have any defensive wounds?” Porter asks. Carter chews on her lip.

“No, he does not,” she says quietly.

Porter taps her hand on the witness stand and turns in the direction of their table.

“No further questions,” she says, pointed.

“Re-direct, Your Honor?” Becky pipes up immediately.

She stays where she is this time, looking down at her lap for a drawn moment.

“Dr. Carter,” she starts at last. “In your opinion, what effect the trauma of rape and the beating she suffered would have on Mary’s mental state when she picked up that plunger?”

“Objection,” Perez says, mildly indignant. “If the defense wanted to enter the insanity plea they should’ve done it at appropriate time.”

“Overruled, Mr. Perez,” Judge Batzer waves him off. “Dr. Carter, please answer the question.”

“She’d be under extreme emotional distress,” Carter says slowly, voice as if frowning. “I believe her behavior was representative of an acute stress response.”

“And how does it differ from mental illness?” Becky asks for the jury.

“ASR is also known as the fight-or-flight response,” Carter explains. “It’s a normal reaction for humans to a perceived threat to their survival.”

Becky spreads her palms like she’s dubious.

“Can rape be considered a threat to survival?”

“Absolutely,” Carter says with conviction. “Being forced down, beaten and penetrated against your will…” Matt swallows; something squeezes low in his belly, hot and sick. “It triggers the same psychological response as, for example, being threatened with a gun.”

“Would you say then, doctor,” Becky carries on, “that an average person could reasonably react the way Mary did, were they in her shoes?”

“I would,” Carter states clearly.

“Nothing further, Your Honor,” Becky says.

Judge Batzer bangs the gavel noisily.

“The court will recess until morning,” she announces.

“Excuse me,” Matt rasps.

He rushes out of the courtroom as steadily as he can, swinging his cane wildly. The men’s restroom is down the hall; he almost runs over a few people on his way – thank God most jump back before a blind man – and shoves into the first available stall, not stopping to close it behind him, and throws up all his breakfast.

Matt wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavily, and closes his eyes.

He’s still half-hard.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he grunts.

Becky’s waiting for him in front of the restroom.

“Are you alright?” she asks, a note of suspicion coloring her concern.

“Food poisoning,” Matt says distractedly. “Becky.” He exhales. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she asks skeptically.

“For judging you, when you told me that you hadn’t reported your assault,” Matt says with difficulty. “That—wasn’t fair of me.”

Becky’s silent for a moment, unreadable.

“Where does this come from?” She sticks out her jaw, distrusting. “Did something happen?”

“No. Nothing happened,” Matt says tonelessly. “Nothing at all.”

 

*

 

He still has a profile on that stupid website.

Matt ponders it for a good part of the hour, torn between deleting it and never visiting the site again.

 _There was a time you didn’t use to be a coward_ , he thinks and loads the site.

He has messages. He has—Matt swallows a brittle laugh, exhales, refocuses. Ringer… Ringer’s profile is deleted. Figures. Nothing he can get from there. He’ll leave it to Cyber Crime. No way to tell if Ringer solicited any new victims. He’s careful enough not to do it on the open forum; if he contacted anyone besides—besides Matt he did it through DM. Just like he did with Matt, didn’t say anything incriminating publicly— _Treat you like a dirty slut you are. That’s right, that’s what a bitch like you is good for._

_Thank you._

He didn’t get anything he hadn’t wanted.

Matt clicks on the new message notification.

He’s got over a dozen new DMs from various guys. Interested. Apparently he hooked more than just his target. He should delete the account. It served its purpose and he blew it anyway. No way Ringer contacts him again, not through the site. These other guys, they may be creeps or may be not, but there’s no use clicking through their messages looking for… what, exactly? He should just walk away. This is a bad idea.

He opens a first message on random. Matt’s always been weak with temptation.

**sadisticdaddy**

Hey newbie. Welcome to the fold! Always good seeing fresh faces, so to speak. So what brings you here? I think you can guess what’s my vice ;)

I’m Ken. I’m available if you ever want to talk over a cup of coffee or maybe something more…

Matt’s fingers only hesitate for a second.

**devilinthesheets**

my name is matt. wanna meet?

 

This is a bad idea.

Ken is, for all appearances, a regular guy. He smells like too much hair gel and a nicotine patch. “I’m trying to quit,” he tells Matt with a self-deprecating chuckle to his voice, running his fingers through his gelled-up hair anxiously. There’s a hint of sweat underneath the nice aftershave he wears. He’s trying to make a good impression. Maybe he even cares for getting to know Matt beyond anonymous sex. He seems like a nice guy.

This makes what Matt is going to do to him even more reprehensible. Not that it’s going to stop him.

“I never dated a blind guy,” Ken says with an awkward scratch to his neck, twirls a beer bottle, his first, on a coaster compulsively. “Is it weird of me to say that? If it is I’m sorry, my sister always says I have a major foot-in-mouth syndrome.” He laughs thinly, licks his lips. “Sorry, I’m not very good at this, am I?”

Matt puts down his whiskey-and-coke deliberately.

“I think I’m done with my drink,” he says.

“Right,” Ken says, kind of mopey. “I get it. Look, this thing about you being blind, I don’t know why I said it, I think you’re really cute, actually, and I—”

“Do you want to fuck me?” Matt says clearly.

Ken closes his mouth, stops fiddling with his beer label.

“Uh… yeah.” Ken bites his lip. “Very much so.”

“Let’s go.”

Ken paces around the cheap motel room they rent, touching the sad curtains and washed-threadbare thin bed covers, hunched self-consciously.

“I don’t really do stuff like this,” he admits. Matt walks up to him. Ken wets his mouth, a nervous habit. “Is it alright if I kiss you?”

Matt smashes their lips together. Ken stumbles, taken aback, but then he grabs Matt’s waist and gives as good as he gets. Matt has to stand up on his toes to kiss him; Ken’s shoulders are bulky under his frantic fingers, hulking next to Matt’s slim figure. He works out. Matt could take him out without breaking a sweat, but he still feels very small and oddly powerless with Ken’s big hands all over him. He likes it.

“Matt,” Ken pants. He nips behind Matt’s ear, hot and gentle. “God, Matt.” Matt doesn’t want to hear this.

“Come on,” he growls and grabs his belt, yanks his pants down until Ken almost trips with them around his ankles.

He drags Ken, backwards, to the bed, pulls him down – his back hits the mattress, Ken’s full weight lands on top of him, oh-so-satisfying. Ken roams his hand over Matt’s chest, almost shy.

“Come on,” Matt pants again. He shoves Ken’s hands to his zipper, presses them hard so his dick hurts. “Don’t pussyfoot ‘round me now. This all you got? Show me who’s the boss here, _daddy_.”

Ken makes a high sound in his throat, caught between a choke and a moan, but it hits a string. He tears Matt’s pants and boxers down aggressively, turns him around face pressed on the sheets, no shyness or delicacy about him now, and pulls out his cock, rubs it against Matt’s ass with a growl. His breathing changes, uninhibited.

Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you’re really doing it to them.

Ken licks his finger and pushes it inside Matt. This is going to be terrible. Ken’s cock is as big as he is and Matt’s only been fucked once in his life, and it was years ago, with Elektra and a pretty small vibrator. Matt doesn’t try to relax, breathes heavily through his mouth, sheets getting wet against his face and chest contracting painfully from lack of oxygen.

The guy preps him a bit but he doesn’t use lube; finally’s living up to his nickname. It hurts when he thrusts inside, inch by inch, slow but merciless. There’ll be some tears. Nothing Matt hasn’t taken before. The man starts driving in his hips and it’s just pain, not even a jolt of pleasure, the unrelenting drag of his dick splitting and humiliating and unwelcome.

Matt’s entire body lights up with arousal. He’s so, _so_ hard.

“Yeah,” the man grunts. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Matt pinches his eyelids; his eyelashes are wet. He thinks he can feel a tang of blood.

“Degrade me,” he whispers into the stale cotton. “Please.”

“Fucking whore,” the man grunts instantly. He pistols his hips faster, his booming heart near-painful against Matt’s back; he’s very into it. “I can’t believe you like this. Look at you, fucking throbbing for my dick. You like being held down, you little slut, huh, you like being forced to take it?” He shoves his cock in harsher, hard enough something rips. “Say it, you sick little freak, say it you like it.”

“Yes,” Matt gasps. “I like it.”

The man growls loudly.

“Yeah,” he spits, drops spraying the back of Matt’s neck. “What I thought.” He shoves Matt’s face to the mattress, brutal. “Pegged you for one needy whore.”

Matt comes.

The man thrusts his hips brutally, once, twice, and follows suit with a low keen on his lips.

Ken pushes himself up and flops on his back. He takes a ragged breath and throws his arm over his head. His rattled heartbeat slowly settles into normal.

“God,” he exhales. “That… that was— _something_ , Matt.”

Matt tries to catch his breath, chest heaving. He aches all over; his ass feels used and tender. Sloppy with dripping come and blood.

He wipes himself on the sheet perfunctorily, heaves up, and pulls up his pants. No need to fish for discarded clothing – they didn’t even make it that far.

Ken rolls over to his side.

“Leaving already?” he murmurs softly. He reaches out, brushing his knuckles against Matt’s tailbone. “I’d like to see you again.”

“I don’t date guys,” Matt says, slipping on his shoes.

Ken props up on his arm and seems to look at him lustrously.

“Scared to come out of the closet? Look, I’ve been there.”

Matt shrugs. “I’m not gay.”

Ken indicates to his rumpled clothes and the messy covers pointedly.

“Uh, if you’re going to have a gay freak-out, I think this ship has already sailed.”

“It’s not about wanting to fuck men.”

“What is it about then?” Ken asks, the tone of his voice as if frowning.

Matt stands up. “I gotta go.”

“Hey.” Ken grabs his wrist gently. “Are you alright, Matt?’

“Of course,” Matt says tonelessly. “Don’t worry about the room bill.”

And with that, he leaves and doesn’t turn back.

 

Most of the guys on the site are not interested in more than sexting.

Some are like Ken. All aw-shucks and virginly blushes, acting so innocent until they get to what they’ve come to collect. Some ask for a second date; Matt doesn’t meet a guy twice. It’s not what this is.

He doesn’t ask for their names and if they give it, he doesn’t bother to remember.

They blur into one elusive man in his head. Their “I’ve never done something like this before” and “Is this how you like it,” and “Tell me, whore, tell me I’m the best fuck you ever had” are all spoken in the same voice. He knows what it is that he’s chasing, knows it’s stupid, and wrong, but it’s a compulsion, a purulent scab he can’t stop picking on. He should be out there looking for Ringer, not fucking out his self-pity all over the town.

Disgraceful.

The devil keeps busy. Clawing back the sick taste of failure pushing at the back of his teeth with broken bones and thrown punches he wrings from city’s darkest alleys, like the combined amount of petty crime and misplaced efforts can scale back the weight of his sins. He’s stalling, is what he is. Punching out the wrong criminals to stave off his guilt, but he can’t; it’s in his lungs, it’s how he breathes, inhale–exhale, guilt–release, he needs atonement or he’s going to suffocate.

Matt kicks in a would-be rapist’s face, steps on it so he won’t get up. Busting up sexual assaults is a piss poor band-aid for his soul, but Matt has experience with moral bargaining.

He pins the man’s hips down with his knees and beats on the body under him blindly until his fists stop shaking; beats on, even as gunpowder and bitter black coffee bleed into the olfactory topography of his alley, uneven thuds on asphalt, skewed a little to the right with the weight of a shotgun. Matt grits his teeth; of _course_ this again, of course now. Matt punches the perp in the jaw, the swing losing its wind in helpless fury; if he has a bone to pick with him, he can come get it himself.

“I think he had enough, Red.”

“Since when do you care,” Matt bites back. He pushes himself up on his calves, catching an exerted breath; he blows a hair out of his face and remembers it’s hidden under his helmet. “I thought your philosophy was shoot first, ask questions second.”

Frank contemplates him for a stretching moment; Matt squirms in his skin, pissed. Frank’s fucked-up quiet nobility, he hates it. He wants to set him off.

“What he do?” Frank asks finally.

Matt twists his lips, jerks his head at the deadweight pulp on the ground shortly.

“Tried to rape his ex-girlfriend in the back alley of the bar where she works. Been stalking her for a while.” Frank grunts softly.

“Don’t think that’s a capital punishment offense.”

Matt can’t help himself, he bursts with a sour laugh that screeches jarringly in the thin space made with building walls.

“No? No rapists on the Punisher’s docket?” He pulls his lips mockingly. “What’s the matter, Frank, you’re too busy killing kids for drug possessions?”

No take; Matt hisses, annoyed, whirls up and makes an aborted sweep around the bottleneck alley instead of socker-punching Frank right in his infuriating stone mug. His hands are itching; Matt clenches them into fists.

“What do you want, Frank,” Matt grits out furiously.

“You got Karen worried, with whatever stupid shit you got yourself into now,” Frank says, gruff.

“I’m so glad to know you’re all so concerned for me,” Matt says flatly. “You can tell Karen to mind her own business.”

“I ain’t your couple’s counsellor.” He grabs Matt by the back of his neck and yanks him brusquely. “Hey. You tell her, Red.”

Matt writhes, trying to shrug him off but Frank’s meaty hand on his neck just tightens.

“So you, what,” Matt says bitterly. “Came here to drag me by the scruff of my neck to her front door?” Frank makes a vague shrugging gesture.

“If I have to.”

Matt huffs, jerking his chin, and doesn’t say anything.

“You go to her,” Frank grunts, not done it seems. “Hear? Go. Don’t make me do this again.”

He clamps on Matt’s neck and with that lets go. Prickling heat claws at Matt’s throat. Just like that.

Frank’s turning away and Matt grabs his shoulder, shoves him roughly against the brick wall.

Frank knees him in the gut and Matt rolls with the blow but he can’t dodge the fist that slugs his jaw; Matt bites his cheek, hard, and tastes blood. _Alright_.

He throws a quick punch, one, two – it always comes down to his fists – and Frank catches his arm, wrings it so his elbow whines, worrying. He gets his forearm on Matt’s windpipe, presses so it’s Matt now against the wall. Matt buckles and Frank pushes harder. There’s no air for a second.

“What, Red,” Frank pants. “What, you need a good beatdown? That it? That why you always keep pushing me so damn much?”

“What you’re gonna do about it?” Matt gasps, struggling and dizzy with adrenaline when Frank pushes him back again. “Daredevil is a complication, yeah? Getting all up in your business, threatening your simple world of black-and-white morality, so mouthy, stubborn. And wheedling, constantly wheedling to get something out of you—you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone, right? So why don’t you shut me down?”

He grips Frank’s biceps and shoves Frank roughly against himself.

“Give me what I deserve, Frank,” he growls.

Frank grabs him right back and throws him on the wall; Matt’s soles leave the ground for a second there, his skull gnashes on the coarse brick, stomach clamping around sick excitement—Frank grinds his fists around Matt’s arms hard enough it leaves a bruise and Matt leans into the pain and pushes in closer so Frank shoves him back. Then Frank clenches his fists and steps away.

Matt’s head spins with vertigo; he slides an inch down the wall. He feels cold.

Frank says nothing – like Matt’s not even worth that – and stands there, something significant it seems passing between them; Matt wishes he could read the expression on his face. And then Frank turns away, thud thud thud of heavy combat boots tapering off down the alley.

Matt stays leaning uselessly against the wall for a couple long moments.

 _Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you’re really doing it to them._ He traces the words on the inside of his thigh and smears it abruptly with his finger.

 

*

 

He stands outside for some time before he comes in.

Father Lantom’s third confessional, where he always is on evenings, first Friday of the month. When Matt attended Sunday school he went to confession every first Friday, desperate to stave off the prickling fear he’ll die suddenly with his sins unabsolved. It seemed too good to be true – complete nine First Fridays and you’re granted Eternal Salvation. It the end, he only did four; not that it’d matter anyway. A loophole in the system is not going to save him of Hell.

Matt whispers his _Forgive me for I have sinned_ and kneels on the hard wood, quiet for a long time.

“I haven’t seen you here for quite some time,” Father Lantom at last says. “Something’s been troubling your mind, Matthew?”

Matt pauses, unsure.

“I thought I knew Devil,” he says. “That I—made peace with the darkness in me.”

He goes quiet for a moment.

“As much as you can,” he says.

Lantom leans to the confessional screen.

“And now something happened to make you rethink that?” Matt chews on the inside of his cheek.

“I’ve been—been thinking about the world one way. There’s. There are bad men and then there are innocent people they hurt. Or, at least there are bad deeds and those harmed by them.” He bites on his mouth. “They teach you in Church, everyone carries sin inside them. Everyone is capable of evil. And I thought, that means we all are going to hurt people around us at some point. And, we all are going to be hurt once.” He pulls at the skin of his lips. “I didn’t think the line would be so blurry.”

“Explain?” comes Lantom’s hoarse voice.

“I had it all figured out,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Victims and Abusers, so simple, so _perfect_. You can condemn a man when he does someone wrong and you move on, satisfied in fulfilling your moral duty. You know I—the other day I accused some-somebody of having this black-and-white morality. And for the longest I’ve been the one who didn’t see shades of gray in the world. Didn’t want to see.”

Low exhale.

“It never once occurred to me that sometimes there are no victims. Sometimes it’s just, people, doing fucked-up things to themselves and—screwing one another, and it’s just a circle of very flawed people messing it up further for everyone and themselves. And it’s nobody’s fault. Or, maybe everybody’s responsible, I don’t.” Matt closes his eyes. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Lantom doesn’t chastise him for the curse. He asks instead:

“Do you think it’s easier for you when there is someone to blame?”

Matt takes in a long breath, stale Church air.

“It’s—comforting, when you can examine and isolate the wrong. That way you can fight it.” He makes a vague gesture, drops his hand. “This is just—floating out there, the world, how things work, I don’t know. And there’s nothing to do about it.” He touches the wall of the confessional with his forehead, whispers, “And it makes me feel so damn guilty.”

Lantom’s silence is regarding.

“Feel guilty for what?”

Matt takes a moment to reply. He doesn’t want to talk about this to Lantom. But if he can’t say it to his priest, where does he go to?

“There’s a wickedness inside me, Father,” he says. “Maybe there always has been. But lately it, it began to fester. Close in and snare me so I can deny it no longer.” He plods with difficulty. “I’ve been having desires.”

“Homosexual desires?” Lantom asks carefully.

Matt almost laughs; oh, it would be so simple, if that was it. So much easier.

“Darker desires,” he says. “I’ve been thinking… about forbidden things. Violent.”

“You don’t have to shy around it,” Lantom says. “I’m not here to judge you.”

“Rape,” Matt says flatly.

Lantom’s temperature upticks for a degree. Matt curls his blunt nails into the meat of his palm.

“You’ve been thinking about raping someone?” Lantom says at last, voice cautiously stripped of anything.

Matt pinches his eyes painfully.

“The opposite,” he whispers.

Confessional wood slips under his palms, sour sweat. The seconds seem to pulsate in his throat, a choking fist.

“Matthew,” Lantom says, very gently. “Were you raped?”

Matt swallows, and swallows again, something like shame and revulsion pinching his eyes.

“No.” He pauses. “I don’t know,” he says quietly.

He forces a breath into his constricted muscles, struck by the sudden honesty of it. He didn’t have such conscious thought but now that he said it he realizes it’s true.

“I didn’t think it was possible.” He laughs weakly. “It should be simpler, it—you know it when you see it, right? If you’re not sure then it means it’s not—it’s not—” His voice breaks off.

The church, the space within its sky-high walls and the confining shoe-box confessional, the whispering silence, it closes in on him, stretches impossibly wide, and Matt wants to escape it so he can breathe. He wants to scratch himself out of existence. Sharp nails and a pile of bloody skin scraps the only thing left.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Lantom says. Matt blinks, yanked out of it. “I think you shouldn’t be talking to me about this.”

Father Lantom always has the answers. Matt feels like an unmoored boat, drifting away.

“Then who?” is what he says.

“I think,” Lantom begins, treading carefully. “I think you should talk to a therapist, Matthew.”

Matt’s mouth falls open.

“I thought the Church doesn’t believe in therapy,” he points out, raising his eyebrows. “Aren’t I supposed to just talk to my priest and pray very hard like a good Catholic?”

“I’m not a licensed medical professional, Matthew,” Lantom says wryly. “And the Catholic Church is a millennium-old institution. It can be slow to catch up to the times.”

“Hah.” He wants to make a snarky joke and decides better. “What if I said that I’d rather see my priest?”

“Then I’ll be there to listen to you,” Lantom says simply. “But, Matthew—I think you really should reconsider.”

Matt nods shortly.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He starts to raise from his knees.

Lantom inclines his head, murmuring the words in Latin.

“Please—Father,” Matt interrupts softly. “I can’t ask you for absolution.”

“Do you think you don’t deserve it?” Lantom asks, his hoarse voice plain and unbearably baring. Matt bites on his mouth. “God forgives everything.”

“I don’t think it would be ingenuous.” He sets his chin. “Not if I intended to sin again.”

“Very well,” Lantom says finally. “I’ll indulge you this time. If you decide that you’re not as set on your road of glutton for punishment, you know I’m here next Sunday.”

The corner of Matt’s lips rises in a dry smile.

“Not likely.”

Lantom exhales tiredly.

“That, Lord knows.”

 

*

 

“Had me worried there for a while, Bruce,” Angela greets him, leaning against a streetlamp with a cigarette dangling from her fingers, like a hooker waiting for a john at the usual spot.

“Heavy workload,” Matt says distractedly. He lands his feet cautiously on the ground; he keeps to the shadow.

“I imagine,” Angela remarks. “What do you do when you’re not scaling buildings, moonlight as a stuntman?” She drops the wilting cigarette and crushes it with her shoe-tip. “I have something for you.”

She steps out of the lamplight, in with him under the veil of the shadow. Matt tenses, each nerve in his skin screaming with alarm.

“Ringer’s real name is Eric Rang.”

Matt starts. He forgets about his discomfort.

“How do you know this?” he demands.

Angela shrugs.

“I know things,” she says, which of course is exactly the kind of a thing an agent would say. She fingers through the contents of a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and fishes out something, paper.

“You didn’t see this,” Angela warns, handing him a folder.

Matt feels it in his palm; manila, smelling official. He’s not stupid enough to take off his glove. Not a good move, leaving your fingerprints for a Fed.

“I didn’t see this,” Matt agrees easily.

He flips the folder open and ruffles some pages, hoping that Angela will start talking on her own.

“Turns out the reason we couldn’t pin this guy is that he’s functionally un-pinnable,” she prompts.

Matt furrows his eyebrows, torn from his pretending to read.

“What do you mean?”

“Before he was Ringer,” Angela starts, “Eric Rang was working for the CIA.”

“That’s.” Matt splutters. “Don’t you people keep track of your employees?”

“Well, there’s a limited information flow between the agencies. Turf powerplay,” she explains with a shrug. “But that doesn’t matter. Eric Rang is dead.”

“I don’t understand,” Matt says.

“Rang was deep undercover in Sokovia,” Angela says. “Deep, deep down, going years before Novoty’s dictatorship. But they lost contact with him in 2015.”

“When Sokovia…” Matt realizes.

“Right, when Sokovia was literally torn out of the map,” Angela agrees. “The Agency has him on record as KIA. A death certificate, though no autopsy report. Legally, Eric Rang is dead.”

“Didn’t that clue you in, that there was no autopsy?” Matt says, quirking his brow.

“Well,” Angela says. “That’s unusual but not unheard of. If there’s enough indicators that an agent’s been killed in the field, they can be officially declared dead without a body.” She pauses. “Except.”

“Except Rang wasn’t dead,” Matt supplies. Angela shakes her head.

“Except they _knew_ he was alive.” Matt opens his mouth and closes it. “The death certificate, the falsified records, it was just a part of an intricate cover.”

“But Rang was already undercover,” Matt says.

“This was something deeper,” Angela says. “He was working an assignment with a terrorist splinter cell, but after the big crackdown a few weeks before Sokovia fell, the group scattered and making contact became much more difficult. See, he needed an in but those who didn’t get caught in the sting got smarter and rapidly radicalized. And they were cooking up something dangerous.”

“So how’d you figure it out?” he prompts.

“I didn’t,” Angela admits. “It was dumb luck, really. I don’t know who did, or if they were looking for something else but… See, Eric Rang’s death certificate says he died _before_ the fall of Sokovia. But his cover was intact and as far as the record goes, everything was going fine up until the time of his death.” Angela throws up her hands vaguely. “It just doesn’t add up.”

“So what’d they do?”

“They tracked down Rang’s Case Officer. Which wasn’t easy because he was _also_ deep undercover. And that’s when they found out that Rang was still active, but the operation was classified so that only a handful of people knew about it.” Angela takes a breath. “Anyway, his CO, being in the field, didn’t have contact with Rang. And when they tracked down the person who was supposed to, it turned out she hadn’t heard from Rang in over a year.”

 “God, what a mess,” Matt remarks.

“Well, you don’t pull an agent off the field for nothing,” Angela says. “But given the nature of Rang’s assignment, he was to report every six months, so not enough time has passed to declare him MIA.”

“Then what do you call an agent that’s rampaging through Hell’s Kitchen brutally attacking people?” Matt say, biting.

“AWOL,” Angela retorts drolly. “And no one even connected Eric Rang to Ringer’s killings before last week.”

“What _is_ the connection?” Matt asks; his fist twitches.

“The nature of his assignment,” Angela says. Matt huffs.

“Which is?”

“Classified.” Right. A Fed. “Look, even I don’t know specifics,” Angela continues, an olive branch. “I shouldn’t be telling you this—well, I shouldn’t be talking to you in the first place but—all I know is, the group Rang infiltrated was conducting some sort of experiments. Sick experiments—on humans.”

“You mean—Mengele experiments,” Matt says. “Or—”

“The kind of experiments that create you people,” Angela says.

“ _Us people?_ ” Matt repeats, raising his eyebrows. Angela makes a vague gesture at him.

“Superpeople. Enhanced, whatever you wanna call it.” Matt bristles.

“I’m not—” Angela raises her hand, silencing.

“Spare me,” she says. “I honestly don’t care. What matters is, Rang is a product of such an experiment.” Matt’s suddenly frozen with the realization.

“He has powers,” he whispers. “Ringer can—”

“Most we were able to find out is, he’s _really_ good at evading scrutiny,” Angela says. “It can be somewhat attributed to his training but—”

“It’s not,” Matt interrupts her.

Angela balks at the stony certainty in his voice.

“I also have something for you,” Matt says then.

“Oh?”

“I met Ringer.” Angela’s heartbeat ticks up.

“You _what_?”

“I—set up a meeting.” He swallows over the heat pulling in his cheeks and pushes on. “Through one of his websites.”

Angela crosses her arms, pondering.

“We tried to dangle a bait before,” she murmurs. “It didn’t take. What’d you do?”

“Win him over with my charming personality?” Matt suggests. He sighs. “Does it matter? I met him and I—screwed up.”

“ _What were you thinking?_ ” Angela demands incredulously.

“I was thinking he needed to be stopped,” Matt retorts. “But he—he was stronger than me. Quicker, too. And… there was something else.”

“What?”

“His smell.” Angela cocks her hip, dubious.

“His _smell_?”

Matt shakes his head, goes back to that alley, how he could smell nothing but the rain. The wet asphalt under his knees, a sudden spike of arousal; he bites it down.

“At time I thought I was just slipping, but I couldn’t smell him because he _had_ no smell. Not—sweat, food that he ate on his breath, nothing. Not until—” He stops.

“Until what?” Angela prompts.

“Never mind,” Matt mutters.

“Maybe you just didn’t smell him because you didn’t smell him,” Angela counters, a tone like she doesn’t believe she has to say it.

“Trust me, if there was something I would’ve smelled it,” Matt says.

“What, are you like Captain Bloodhound or something?” Matt barks out a laugh.

“You could say that.” He frowns then. “There was another thing.” He hesitates, not sure how or whether to say it. “I think… In the moment, I just thought it was a trick of the brain or—he got bigger. Stronger. He wasn’t towering over me before but suddenly he was.”

“What are we dealing with here,” Angela mutters. Matt shakes his head slowly.

“I don’t know.” He stills his jaw. “But next time, I’ll be ready.”

Angela jerks abruptly.

“Woah, hold on.” She raises her arms, a _step back_ gesture. “ _Next time_ , you’ll call me and let the people who are trained to do this deal with Ringer.”

“I _was_ trained to do this—” Matt argues.

“You’re not prepared—”

“ _No one_ is prepared!” Matt shouts. “That’s the point! No one is prepared, not you, not your SWAT teams or whatever it is you have, no one,” he repeats, “is prepared for what he is.”

Angela is silent for a moment.

“Are you okay, Bruce?” she finally asks, guarded. Matt puffs out a furious exhale.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” he complains.

“Maybe because you’re clearly _not_ ,” Angela suggests, something like challenge but also unsure concern in her voice.

“I’m fine,” Matt says shortly. “But I’ll sleep better once I take Ringer off the streets.”

“You can’t,” Angela starts, “you can’t make it personal.”

“Damn right it’s personal,” Matt exclaims.

“See, that’s your problem,” Angela says. “You get too involved, if you were an agent I’d pull you off the assignment.”

“Well, good thing that I’m not,” Matt bites back. Angela crosses her arms battingly.

“No, not a good thing,” she retorts. “There’s a reason this rule exists. When it becomes more than just an assignment your judgement is compromised. You end up making stupid mistakes and putting yourself in dangerous situations that could’ve been avoided. It’s not a good brain space for making high-stakes decisions.”

“My brain is just fine,” Matt exhales. Angela looks at him for a long moment.

“Right,” she says colorlessly. “Look, Bruce, I’m putting a lot of trust in you here. Don’t blow it.”

“ _Why_ are you doing this?” Matt asks. “I mean, you didn’t have to tell me this. You could’ve just arrested me.”

Angela nibbles at her upper lip, one cloggy heel scraping on the ground.

“Your heart seems to be in the right place,” she says at last. Shrugs. “Maybe I just want to believe in heroes.”

Matt’s mouth twitches, a humorless smile.

“Hah,” he says. He thinks about how much easier life was when he could only see in black and white. “You and me both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I chose Ringer’s real name to be Eric Rang, in a long and coveted tradition of comics characters having suspiciously fitting names (they call it Victor von Doom syndrome).
> 
> \- The whole “attend nine First Friday Devotions and you’ll totes go to Heaven” is a real thing. I don’t know what to tell you. Catholics!
> 
> \- I’m having SO MUCH fun writing all the courtroom drama but especially Porter.


	7. Chapter 7

“Matt? Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Matt squeezes a fist around his left wrist; the skin pulsates with dull pain, swollen. A man, some guy he met in a bar and didn’t really want to sleep with but did it anyway, pinned his arm on a metal bed frame last night, pushed down until Matt stopped struggling. That oughta leave a nasty bruise. Wonder if you can glimpse it over the cuff of his shirt.

“Matt?”

Matt blinks.

“Who’s Kate Vinokur?” he says.

Becky pauses. He can’t read her.

“What?”

Matt inclines his head at the assorted documents littering their table.

“On the docket. The witness?”

“The guidance counsellor,” Becky answers automatically. “Character witness.”

Matt frowns.

“I thought we weren’t gonna call a character witness.”

“It’s the only witness we have, Matt.” There’s a pulsating vein under Becky’s tone.

“Character witnesses are notoriously not credible,” Matt argues, a worn objection, rehearsed too many times. “In majority of cases they end up working against the defense…”

“Well, you make her work _for_ us,” Becky huffs, emphatic. “Because the trial is coming to an end and I’m _losing_ here, Matt.”

“We’ll ask for continuance,” Matt says. “We have 24 hours, we’ll go over all evidence again, there has to be—”

“No, we’re not changing the whole strategy in the home stretch.” Becky shakes her head, firm. “If you don’t like the way I conduct this case, you should’ve told me that three months ago. Play ball or back off my trial.”

They face each other off for a slow moment.

Matt exhales.

“Okay,” he concedes. “What do you need me to do?”

 

Kate Vinokur – _Please, call me Kate_ – is an excellent witness to prep. A natural, Kate tells him with wicked wit that she did three semesters of law school before realizing she wanted to help kids. On a stand, she’s a picture of calm assurance – her tweed skirt is not very fashionable but appears timeless rather than frumpy thanks to the resolute way she holds herself and she smells _great_ , and she just has something about her that says, _You can trust me_. Honestly, she’s a Godsend; he couldn’t have come up with a more perfect character witness.

“Ms. Vinokur,” Matt starts. “Would you state your occupation for the court?”

Kate leans forward in her seat, her shoulders relaxing in a practiced move.

“I’m a guidance counsellor,” she says confidently.

Matt opens his arms, gesturing with his cane in Mary Walker’s direction.

“And how do you know the defendant?”

“We work together,” Kate says. “She’s a teacher at my preschool.”

Matt quirks his head, all casual inquiry.

“What preschool?”

“Uh, Bright Horizons Daycare,” Kate answers. “We provide early education and counselling for special needs children, so they can have the same opportunities as their more advantaged peers.”

“And what are the extends of Mary’s responsibilities?” Matt prods.

“She mainly works with children on the autism spectrum,” Kate says, her voice growing impassioned but not overly intense. “She, she adapts the program to their unique needs and makes sure they’re not overstimulated and always comfortable.” There’s a note of awe in her words; Matt gets the impression she’s smiling. “Mary has an amazing individual approach to her pupils. There’s twenty-one kids in her group and she makes sure she devotes equal attention to every one of them.”

“You seem to hold Mary in high regard,” Matt notes. “What is your relationship with the defendant?”

Kate turns slightly in Mary’s direction.

“I don’t know her that well, personally,” Kate admits. “We’re… colleagues, though we’re friendly. Whenever I have an opportunity to work with her, she’s a pleasure to be around. Always a smile for everyone, admirable work ethic… I wish all my coworkers were like her,” Kate adds, chuckling.

“I understand you were working the day Mary was attacked?” Matt says quietly.

Kate drops her gaze, shaking her head slowly.

“It’s horrible,” she echoes his tone. “To think I was just down the hall and I didn’t hear anything…” She raises her chin. “Ever since it happened, I keep wondering, what if one of our kids walked in on that monster when he… when he was raping Mary. I’m sure that’s what was going through Mary’s mind too.”

“You think that she was also trying to protect the children?” Matt suggests.

“Objection.” Perez stands up, mildly indignant. “The defense is assuming facts not in evidence.”

“The jury will disregard this last remark,” Judge Batzer rules.

Matt inclines his head slightly at Becky, _worth a try._

“What can you tell me about that day?” Matt picks up, changing approach.

Kate is silent for a moment, biting lightly on her lip, ruminating.

“It was a pretty regular morning, really, up until I heard the sirens.” She pinches her eyes. “I remember, Teddy, one of my kids, he ran into my office saying, _Ms. Kate, something bad happened to Ms. Mary…_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Matt interjects, doing a pretty good job, in his opinion, of sounding thrown back. “One of the kids _saw_ Mary?”

“Not just Teddy,” Kate says. “She… when the paramedics arrived, they wheeled her out on the stretcher and we tried to herd the kids back to the classrooms but…” Kate exhales, her heartbeat a little shaky; genuine. “Her face was—all swelled and—her hair was sticky with blood and… It’s not something a child should ever see.”

Matt waits for a beat, respectful.

“One last question,” he picks up again. “In your opinion, could Mary Walker have done what she’s accused of here?”

“No,” Kate says, conviction strengthening her voice. “Mary is the gentlest soul I know. If that man was killed, it could’ve only been in self-defense.”

Matt nods; he lets her words resonate with the jury.

He walks back to his table where Becky and Mary, silent and unmoved as always, are seated and Perez immediately jumps up.

“Ms. Vinokur,” Perez says nonchalantly, slipping his hand into one of his pants pockets; Matt hates him. “How long has the defendant been working with you?”

Kate hesitates.

“I’m not sure…”

“Would it surprise you to know,” Perez interjects, “that she only started at the daycare last November?”

“I,” Kate stumbles, regains her composure. “Well, whatever the case may be, Mary’s already become an irreplaceable part of our Bright Horizons family.”

Perez nods, the tip of his leather dress shoe tapping brusquely on the courtroom floor.

“And how often do your paths cross at work?” Perez says. “Seeing you’re a guidance counsellor.”

“Sometimes we have to sit down and discuss how to best work with a child, giving their unique needs,” Kate says, a voice like she’s frowning.

“How often?” Perez presses. “Do you meet over every single child, or just the most difficult cases? Do you meet on the regular basis? How many times, exactly, did you have to sit one on one with the defendant in the course of, what, four months during which she was working with you?

“Objection, Your Honor,” Becky huffs, vexed. “The prosecution is badgering my witness _and_ asking compound questions.”

“Mr. Perez, please limit yourself to one question,” Judge Batzer says archly.

Perez waves his hand in a lazy concession.

“Ms. Vinokur, if you could look at me for a moment and answer a question for me,” Perez says, his voice deceptively smooth. “What color are the defendant’s eyes?”

“Objection,” Matt interjects. “I’m not sure…”

“Goes to establishing the witness’ credibility,” Perez puts in. “Your Honor.”

“I’ll humor you this time, Mr. Perez,” Batzer says. “Ms. Vinokur, please answer the question.”

Kate stays silent for a moment.

“Blue,” she says at last.

“They’re brown,” Perez corrects, barely keeping smugness out of his voice. “Ms. Vinokur, are you sure you know the defendant as well you said?” He adds, anticipating Matt’s objection: “Withdrawn. Ms. Vinokur, you stated that the defendant is, quote, ‘the gentlest soul that you know.’ Would it change your opinion if you knew that the defendant has bludgeoned her victim with the murder weapon over couple dozen times, even _after_ he was already dead?” Kate purses her lips, her answer coming a beat delayed.

“Everyone is capable of violence when put in an extreme situation,” she finally says.

“Would you then characterize the defendant’s actions as violent?” Perez immediately pounces.

Matt digs his fingers into his fists, takes a shallow breath.

“I suppose so,” Kate says reluctantly.

“Yes or no, Ms. Vinokur,” Perez pushes. “Would you say that the defendant’s actions were violent?”

“Yes,” Kate says, grudging.

“Nothing further,” Perez says with satisfaction.

“That doesn’t mean her actions weren’t justified,” Kate calls out. “She did what she had to defend herself.”

“ _Nothing further_ ,” Perez repeats. He drops in his seat with less verve than before.

“Ms. Vinokur, you may step down,” Judge Batzer says. Kate nods and raises. “This court is adjourned until tomorrow.” The gavel bangs.

“That was good work,” Becky says to Matt, collecting her papers.

“Yeah well, hopefully it will be enough to sway just one juror,” Matt says back.

Becky turns to Mary and squeezes her arm.

“Don’t worry,” she says, reassuring. “There’s no way the jury will convict you after today.”

Mary picks on her cuticle, her posture limp and colorless.

“Okay,” she says blandly. “I can’t fucking wait to be done with court.”

Becky opens her mouth when Porter tears away from the prosecution table and walks over to her.

“Last chance, Rebecca,” she says without pardon. “Man three, suspended sentence. She does probation. That’s my final offer.”

“Why do I feel you’re getting desperate to deal?” Becky says. Matt’s phone starts ringing.

“Hardly,” Porter snorts. “I’d just like to offer you a chance…”

His _burner_ _phone_ is ringing. Matt frowns and picks up, turning away from the conversation.

“Ma—uhm. Who is this?”

“Hello, Bruce,” Angela del Toro’s voice greets him on the other side of the line.

“How’d you get this number?” Matt asks, frowning harder.

“Please,” Angela says. “Did you really think I wouldn’t check your phone when I put in my number for emergencies?” Matt exhales, exasperated.

“And what is this?” he asks.

“An emergency,” Angela says.

Matt steps away, back to the defense table.

“What’s going on?” he asks urgently.

“We think we know where Ringer’s holed up.” Matt swallows.

“Where?” he asks hoarsely.

“I’m only calling to tell you to stay away,” Angela says, firm. “Don’t look for commotion, don’t get in our way. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“I have to be there—”

“No, you’re a civilian…” Angela starts. Matt tunes her out, listening for background noise. Anything to get him a lead on Ringer’s whereabouts.

_…comb every warehouse along the Hudson from West 33 rd to 50th, bastard’s gotta be there somewhere…_

Hell’s Kitchen. His turf.

“Bruce,” Angela is saying.

“There’s too much at stake here,” he says grimly.

“Bruce, _no_ —” Angela protests.

“I got to go,” Matt says and cuts the call.

He turns to Becky, still locked in her weird power off with Porter.

“Catch with you later,” Matt says, pushing breathlessly documents into his bag. “Something came up.”

Becky pauses, quirking her head.

“I thought we were getting lunch,” she says, as if frowning.

“Raincheck.” He throws his bag over his shoulder, already halfway to leaving. “There’s something I have to deal with first.”

 

*

 

Karen catches him quite literally with his pants down, his mind already halfway out the window.

“Bad time?” Karen asks and doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing into his apartment.

“Your fly is down,” Glorianna remarks, one step behind Karen. Matt grimaces and purposely doesn’t zip it up.

“What is this?” he asks, kinda bitchy. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

Matt makes a vague gesture toward the door. He’s being rude and he’s beyond caring.

“Just listen, you won’t believe—” Karen starts.

“I don’t have time for this,” Matt cuts her short.

“If you’d just—” she tries.

 “Karen, I really—”

“Look, I found your connection!” she exclaims over him.

Matt stops what he’s doing. Karen combs her hair behind her ears and continues in a quieter voice, “Well, we—we both did. Uh, we found this string of date rapes in D.C., uh, pretty brutal ones, bruised throat, ligature marks on the wrists, the works, and no one would come forward and finger their attacker, despite the fact that they met through a dating app and knew his name.” Karen turns to Glori and back, her curtain of hair swishing with the movement. “We think maybe they were ashamed. Didn’t want to tell the cops why they met up.”

“For rape roleplay,” Matt supplies.

“Right,” Karen says. “And, and now he’s escalated to murder. I thought it was a stretch at first but…” She looks to Glori again. “Then we did some more digging.”

“We think he’s targeting people connected to superheroes,” Glorianna says.

Something heavy thumps in his gut.

“Hector Ayala,” Karen starts. “He worked with Banner. Heather Glenn, she used to date Tony Stark, casually, went to a few shindigs with him, maybe schmoozed with his hero crowd too,” Karen uncrooks a third finger, “and Jean DeWolff. Lead a task force to capture the Punisher and keep tabs on the other vigilantes.” _And me_ , Matt realizes. And me.

“Same goes for D.C.,” Glorianna puts in. “Politicians involved in drafting superpeople-relevant legislations, couple S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, hell, even a Howling Commandos historian affiliated with the Smithsonian. Every person we checked, there was a hero connection.”

“Matt?” Karen says. He realizes that he hasn’t spoken for a while.

Karen and Glori are exchanging glances. Matt blinks, trying to shake this off.

“Can I talk to you, for a moment?” Karen says at last, voice quiet and apprehensive. “In private?”

Matt nods lethargically.

Karen takes him by the elbow and leads him away a few steps.

“What’s going on?” she asks in a low tone.

“I’m going after him,” Matt says.

“What?” Karen gets out with incredulity. “Back up, how—”

“I know where he is, it doesn’t matter how,” Matt interrupts her. “I need to end this.”

“Matt,” Karen says. She chews on her lip, trepid. “Are you… are you sure about this?”

“Am I _sure_ about this?” Matt repeats. Karen exhales, short.

“There’s no shame in letting the proper authorities take care of it for once.”

Matt huffs.

“You were the one who insisted I specifically take care of this,” he reminds her, emphatic.

“No, I know.” She averts her face. “Let me—Let me at least get Frank.”

“No,” he cuts her off. “I need to do this alone.”

Karen touches his arm and he almost jumps.

“But you don’t,” Karen says, soft and earnest. Matt bites hard on the inside of his mouth, trying to squish this aching feeling in his chest.

“Just let me do this,” he says softly. He’s terrified a little of the naked honestly in his voice. “Please.”

Karen bites her lip. She nods: _I understand_.

 

Finding one specific warehouse at the bank of the Hudson, when all you have to go on is a vague area of Hell’s Kitchen and your hearing, is a tall order.

Matt closes his eyes, tunes out the horns and the traffic and the buzzing swarm of people. What does Ringer need? How can he narrow his search? A lair, a place where he can crash for the night, presumably. That’s assuming he needs sleep. Eric Rang was human but now… he’s something else.

Ringer could be next to him in the crowd and Matt would be none the wiser. He can’t smell the sweat on the back of his neck, can’t smell a whiff of cigarette ash or SPF cream on his face, a telltale mosaic of scents that makes up a human being. Ringer is a Grenouille, predator stalking the city, a fraud among humans. He was what Matt needed him to be – a faceless tall dark stranger in the alley. His every word, _what did you come here for?_ , it’s never going to leave Matt for as long as he lives. And yet the words are voiceless, spoken as if directly in his mind. His voice haunts him, but he can’t remember the voice.

He swallows a clawing tightness in his throat. How do you find someone you can’t recognize?

_Please_ , Stick snorts in his head. _That’s amateur hour. Can’t look for a sound? Look for what’s not there._

Matt lets out an excess of air, recenters himself. He can do this. He can do this. A warehouse – a box upon a box, a dizzy mix of spices. Not here. Next; hollow silence ringing around metal railings. If that’s Ringer, he’s not there now. A storage, a storage, a storage. Then – a place all boarded up, raw wood in the air. Storage again, tires maybe, industrial rubber. Matt loses count. A lot of vacant space; air circulates differently there. And someone, a person: mechanic heartbeat and heavy steps with absolutely no cadence.

A crawling feeling punches all air from his ribcage. Matt tells himself it’s adrenaline. It’s well into the afternoon; days are still short but it won’t be dusking for an hour, at least. He can’t come out in his costume now.

He pulls the hoodie lower over his face and compulsively secures the blindfold around his head. This will have to suffice. It’s easy way over the trashcan and up a fire escape. The rooftop ledges and chimneys will keep him out of sight. The warehouse is laughingly close; it grates, to think that this whole time Ringer was only blocks from his apartment – grates, and makes some other, frantic feeling rise in him that Matt doesn’t want to touch. Distracted gets you killed.

His trainers land softly on the cement asphalt, nothing like the satisfying thud of Daredevil’s shoes. But maybe it’s for the better. The rooftop access door is unlocked. Suspicious. Almost like an invitation. If he’s walking into a trap—he’ll just have to take his chances. He feels the Feds, Angela, scraping at the back of his heels. He’s all out of time.

Matt takes careful steps down the stairs, staying unnoticed for now, he hopes. Ringer—no, Rang, he has to be Rang—is standing in the middle of the empty vastness of the warehouse. Back to Matt. Just standing there, ostensibly doing nothing. Waiting?

“I’ve been looking for you,” Matt says, not wanting to give him the advantage of setting the tone for this encounter. He needs to take the reins this time.

“Were you, Daredevil?” Rang says noncommittally. Unfazed. “You’ve been looking for _a_ me to quench your need but were you really searching for me?”

His throat goes dry.

“How do you know that?” he manages to get out.

Rang turns around.

“Maybe you had found me, in spite of yourself,” he remarks, a causal suggestion. The skin on Matt’s arm bristles. “Could you tell all those many, many men apart with absolute certainty?” Rang’s voice colors with a hint of dark satisfaction, the first chink of emotion in his impassive façade. “Could you even tell if one of them was me?”

“You’re lying,” Matt rasps.

Rang stays silent, maybe a curl of a smile, maybe a quirked brow, maybe.

“I guess you’ll never know now,” he says and his voice changes, smoothing velveteen and bass-booming. His limbs shoot up like elk branches and a hard mass of meat grows on the back of his neck like a hunchback and snakes around his block of a torso. Matt’s head swirls with sensations; he smells spoiled-cheese sweat and aftertaste of a metallic tang.

“How do you think this is going to end?” Wilson Fisk says.

Matt plunges, down, down. But it’s impossible, Fisk is at Rikers, this is not Fisk’s game, Fisk couldn’t—he couldn’t be the one who _raped_ —

_Shifter_ , Matt repeats to himself. This is all Ringer; he’s a shifter, a something else. Matt loosens his throat, gets some air into his lungs. Breathe. It’s not a perfect mirror; “Fisk” smells like sweat but nothing else and Fisk’s voice… Fisk’s voice was brittle, shaking with the force of his passions while Ringer is vacant, flat. He tries on different emotions and he can mimic every micro-expression, every note that makes it up, but it’s _too_ perfect. Rehearsed.

He’s not Fisk, Matt tells himself again and for a moment is not sure whether that’s meant to be reassuring or not.

“It ends with me leaving you gift-wrapped for the Feds,” he says at last. Projects the confidence he doesn’t feel into his voice and steeled spine. “Like I did Fisk.”

Rang hums, an idle sound like a smile. Matt clenches his fists until they stop trembling.

_I won’t let you get the best of me like last time_ , Matt wants to say but it’s too soon. His voice breaks before he can even mouth the words; he can’t stand to have them spoken out loud. Last time – wet asphalt, choking, the _smell_ —he squeezes his eyes, takes the revulsion and hot shame sitting under his sternum and channels it into violence, what he does best.

“You could’ve killed me before,” he growls out. “You won’t get another chance now.”

“Would you have wanted me to?” Rang says back.

He yells out, beyond talking, charges and goes for the groin. Rang doesn’t just look like Fisk – he grabs Matt’s leg, dart-fast like his size means nothing, almost snaps his ankle twig-like before Matt escapes his hold. A block of unmovable might – Matt’s back fighting Fisk in that warehouse where he was gutted like a fish, years back. But it’s worse. Fisk, Fisk was panting, straining under his own strength while Rang – Rang just _is_ , inexhaustible like a force of nature is.

“What are you?” Matt grits out.

“I am a stranger in a dark alley,” Ringer says, Fisk’s voice mellowing into an eerie serene drone. “I’m your friend who had too much to drink one night, an unsettlingly affectionate relative who keeps touching the bare stretch of your skin. I can be your Dom or a violent boyfriend. I’m what you think of late at night when you think of rape.” He stretches open his arms, gesturing with his paw-palms, Fisk’s and not-Fisk’s, caught grotesquely in the in-between state. “Do you not see? I’m your darkest fantasy.”

He can’t win, Matt realizes, sinking desperation. He can’t overpower Ringer, best he can do is put up a fight and lose, he _can’t stop him_ —

Ringer grunts out, two bullets going through his shoulder.

“ _Stand down, Rang,_ ” a voice over a megaphone says. Matt looks over his shoulder stupidly, ripped from the inside of his own head; the warehouse is cordoned off with a swarm of a small army, gun metal, heavy duty kevlar gear. The FBI; Angela is here. “ _Let the hostage go!  Don’t be stupid, Rang_.”

Hostage. Matt swallows a dumb laugh. He might as well be one.

“Heh,” Rang gurgles out, heaving up from the ground, his hand at the shoulder slick with blood. “You better go. You’re only hostage if you don’t stay of your own free will.” He spits out a thick glob of blood. It drops wetly on the raw cement. “A new game begins now.”

Matt doesn’t move. This is not how this was supposed to end. He didn’t defeat Rang. But he’s just standing there, a useless footnote to the story. So he goes.

“Don’t shoot!” Matt says, raising his arms as he exits into the first truly beautiful dusk in this year. A puff of warm spring air crashes over his face and then Angela is on him.

“Bruce? Oh my God,” she says, dragging him to the side. “What the fuck do you have on your face?” Matt touches his blindfold briefly.

“Uh,” he says. A few feet away from them the Feds are storming into the warehouse, _On the ground, put your hands behind your head_ , Rang is surrendering peacefully.

“Small mercy you don’t have your Halloween costume on,” Angela says. “I told you to stay away.”

“Did you really expect me to?” Matt counters.

She says nothing; it doesn’t really warrant a response.

“So what happens now?” Matt asks. His throat tastes dry and like an ashtray.

Angela shrugs.

“It’s out of my hands now,” she says. “The Bureau will keep him on ice till the trial.”

“Will there be trial?” Matt presses. “Or will they just ship him off to some off-the-map facility where the lab coats can cut him open?”

“You know I can’t answer that.”

They fall silent. Rang is put into cuffs, a heavy thing beeping with electronics. Power dampener, Matt thinks.

“Look, if you ever need something…” Angela starts suddenly.

“I know who to call,” Matt finishes with a faint smile.

He has a feeling Angela is smiling back.

“You got it, Bruce.”

Matt nods and tips his head up; up in the trees, birds are singing.

“Hey.” Matt opens his eyes, eyelashes catching on the blindfold. Angela touches his shoulder and hangs her hand, stiffed but genuine. “You did good.”

Did he? He tried; by God, he tried. From the moment Karen pressed this case into his reluctant hands, he’s been stumbling; he thinks how he stumbled in that rain-washed alley. He tried to find that alley ever since, different alleys, different men, searching for a do-over maybe, or a blood-earned penance. Somewhere along the way this stopped being only about justice. He doesn’t know what this leaves him with.

“Yeah,” Matt says weakly. It’s the best he can do with right now.

Angela hangs back a beat and then goes to join her squad, women and men all in the same baggy windbreaker. Rang is being loaded into the back of an armored car. Matt hesitates half a second and touches Angela’s arm, abrupt.

“Angela,” he says, tentative. “Can I—Could you do me one favor? I want to speak with Rang.”

Angela lingers.

“I don’t think…” she hesitates.

“I won’t be long.”

Angela appraises him for a short moment and then nods. Matt follows her, grateful, through the parting sea of FBI agents until they stop at the armored truck. Rang doesn’t react. His heart beats placidly, peacefully bumping blood out of the holes in his shoulder.

“You’ve got two minutes,” Angela tells him firmly.

“It won’t take that long,” Matt promises.

She leaves. Rang turns his face toward Matt, as if curious. He doesn’t break the silence fallen between them.

Matt doesn’t speak for a long moment out of his allotted time. He takes a breath.

“Why,” he gets out at last, before he loses the nerve. “Why did you do it?”

Ringer just sits there, unmoved by the holes in his shoulder, or by the cuffs, or by Matt trying to scratch under his nails to the very bone.

“Because I can,” he says.

 

*

 

“It’s done,” Matt says breathlessly, cramming through Claire’s kitchen window.

“Hang on, what is—” Claire starts, waving her arms in front of herself.

“Ringer, the guy, he’s done. The Feds got him.” He grins around his teeth. “It’s over.”

He squeezes Claire by her arms and crashes her lips with a bruising kiss.

Claire twitches and then she throws her arms around his shoulders, kissing him back with heat.

_Yes_ , Matt thinks, surprised by the hunger in him. _Yes,_ it’s finally over, he can be okay, he can be normal again now.

He yanks off his hoodie and t-shirt with one hand and lifts Claire up by the backs of her thighs, bounces her an inch higher on the way to the sleep-mussed scent of her bed.

“Matt,” Claire murmurs, hands pushing at his chest, but unwilling to part with his lips. “Matt, slow down.”

He drops her on the bed, an answer. He wants to claw out of his skin; he sheds his sweats, kicks off his socks. Claire soothes her sanitizer-raw palms over his forearms. He needs her hands on him, but not like this. Matt takes her by the wrist and curls her fingers on his hips and squeezes over them so her hard nails dig into the skin. Good, great, this is great, he’s fifty pounds lighter, freed from the Ringer-thing load, and he needs that anchoring pain to keep him drifting from the ground. And Claire, Claire’s so good, and what was he doing, running around town looking for an itch to scratch, when Claire’s _here_ and she’s what’s right for him. A girl like Claire is everything Matt should ever need.

“Matt,” Claire says softly; her pants have been dragged down at some point, her blouse popped open.

Matt realizes he’s soft in his briefs.

“Hey, that’s okay,” Claire says, a different kind of soft. “We don’t have to…”

He shakes his head, drags his nails down his arms to scratch out the prickling under his skin. His mind flashes to Ringer and that alley and his dick spikes up an inch with a gut-punch arousal— _no_ , it’s over, he’s supposed to be _fixed_ , dammit.

“I can’t—I can’t—” his voice dies off. “I shouldn’t have come here, I shouldn’t—I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I, I have to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place like… vaguely some time before Luke Cage. Claire and Luke are still OTP.
> 
> Next week... finale!


	8. Chapter 8

It’s been a week since, a week since Angela has vanished with Ringer into the depths of the federal bureaucratic machine, and life is a new country.

They rest their case. Becky hugs Mary and whispers, _It’s almost over now_. Matt records himself mumbling notes on his closing argument: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I—, This case is—this case makes—, a sigh, a crackling silence. It’s almost over now, he reminds himself, and doesn’t write the speech.

He’s bad at that, the transition periods. His mind is already itching to be done with it all. He doesn’t really have mementos of Ringer in his apartment, nothing to shove into trash bags and let go of it. No closure; it’s a candle flickered off, but it doesn’t sizzle in on the root-knot, it dissolves into smoke, it lingers. Matt wants to air out all his suits and he repeats, you’re being stupid. There’s no fire-whiff there.

His phone rings. He lets it. Karen. Karen. Karen. Claire. Claire. Claire. Matt mutes it, but it’s already burst through his skin, a burrowed worm boring to the light, and Matt scratches his arms, again and again; he puts on a crime law podcast but gives up on the fifth time he has to replay it back. He’s useless like this, he knows.

The club is flaking with smoke-ash right from the door; Matt slips into a seat squeezed between a big guy gesticulating with his beer and a big-haired girl and orders Gin and Tonic, because it feels light and fun, and he’s feeling whimsical. He takes a sip of the drink—buzzing, bright—and inhales a lungful of nicotine that tastes like something scraped off a sidewalk, takes a sip and inhales again. The world slants to the right, alcohol and cigarettes mixing into that particular feeling that just skirts nauseous but is mostly fun. Matt throws back his head, closes his eyes under the sunglasses. The worms nestle just under the membrane that’s his skin but don’t peek their ugly heads.

“Are you famous?”

Matt tips back down his head and frowns, jaw ticking an inch to the side. Young voice, something sardonic and earnest about it. Talking to him.

“Excuse me?” Matt says.

The man – a boy, really, with blown-up muscles sticking all wrong to his lanky frame – props against the bar next to Matt, leaning on his elbows nonchalantly with back to the bartender.

“Your sunglasses,” he points out helpfully. He’s running hot, heartbeat going 150 a minute like it’s trying to catch up in a race. He smells like gym and, oddly, bubblegum. Twenty, maybe. “It’s a club in a basement, at night. I thought maybe you were someone famous.”

Matt pulls his lips in an ironic, cocky smile; the skin whines a little at the hinges.

“Nah,” he just says.

The guy leans closer, his bare arm brushing against Matt’s shirt – it’s last days of April but come on, it’s not _that_ warm – breath tingling Matt on the chin.

“Rich?” he inquires. Matt laughs, genuine.

“I’m a lawyer,” is what he says out loud. He likes this game. He wants to not be Matt Murdock, to be this mysterious lawyer stranger who wears sunglasses indoors for the kick of it and flirts with men at clubs, just for a few hours.

The guy whistles. “That figures,” he says and Matt doesn’t correct his assumptions. “Jimmy,” he says abruptly, and bumps his hip against Matt’s elbow in a greeting. Matt’s whole side feels warm.

“Mike,” Matt says easily. Mike, Claire’s boyfriend who was good at secrets—no; just Mike. He can be a Mike, maybe Mike Grant or Mike Stevenson, something boring like that, a rich lawyer. Mike sounds like an asshole.

“Cool,” Jimmy says and Matt snorts at him.

“Aren’t you too young to be clubbing through the night?” Matt remarks, quirking his eyebrow. Jimmy huffs, his warm-running blood boiling even hotter.

“I’m twenty-one.” There’s a whiny note in his voice. Matt doesn’t bite back his snicker, because Mike wouldn’t. Jimmy bunches up his arms, a sulk.

He thinks, he’s a big guy, and taller than him; he’d be clumsy, too rough, want to show he’s the big man, testing out his new strength. This could work.

“What are you in a market for tonight, Jimmy twenty-one?” Matt asks deliberately.

Turns out what he’s in a market for is a back alley. Matt shoves him against the brick club wall and then yanks Jimmy’s blocky person on top of him, whirling them so his back is hitting the bricks.

“What, no fancy hotel for me?” Jimmy pants coming for breath. Jimmy kind of sucks at kissing, transferring much more drool than it calls for and plain _chewing_ on his mouth for some ungodly reason, but Matt can take it, when it’s not what he wants from him anyway. He grins cheekily, teeth scraping Jimmy’s lips.

“Maybe later,” he says blasély. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, twenty-one.”

Jimmy moans pathetically, which is somehow offset by the fact he’s still producing spit on Matt’s mouth.

“Is that gonna be a thing now?” he complains. Matt chuckles meanly.

“Now it is,” he agrees.

“I guess I’ll have to do my best to make you speechless,” Jimmy says and Matt doesn’t have time to make fun of him for that before he goes to his knees.

Matt grabs his shoulders; his hand barely even curls around the muscle.

“Wait, wait, I—” Matt cuts off. He was going to say, _I wanna do you_ , but something about Jimmy, his punk voice and his soft skin, it makes Matt stop and reconsider.

“Have you ever done this before?” Matt asks him instead.

“Uh, have sex?” Jimmy says. “ _Yeah._ ”

“With a man,” Matt corrects him. “With an older stranger in a bar.”

Jimmy raises from his heels, hand going to rub the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Uh… Why do you ask?” Matt almost snorts but keeps it in.

“Right,” he says in a droll voice. Jimmy shifts in his sneakers, chafe-squish of plastic.

Matt makes himself take a breath and step back from the easy lull of alcohol. _Okay_ , he says to himself. _Okay_.

“Go home, Jimmy,” he tells him indulgently. “Try catching a few hours of sleep before school. Morning you will be grateful.”

Jimmy seems to stare incredulously and then he deflates.

“Was it something I said?” he asks kind of pitifully.

Matt shakes his head, trying shake off the buzz.

“You’re a kid, kid.” He curls his lips in a smile and this time the smile is Matt’s. “I’m not in a habit of sleeping with kids.”

Afterwards Matt stands there for moment, rough wall on the back of his shirt, his fingers scribbling furiously on his thigh before he realizes.

_If you let people do things to you—_

Matt stops himself, abrupt, and mindfully closes his hand. Stop with that.

 _Go home, Matt_ , he tells himself with a sigh.

 

He dials Claire’s when he gets back and leaves her a message. He’s done being a coward. He won’t hide behind excuses.

She shows up at his apartment the next day. Matt wipes his palms nervously on the back of his pants before going to answer the door.

“I’m sorry,” Matt says. He pushes down the wet fist lodged in his throat but it rides back up. He swallows.

Claire releases a long breath she’s been holding.

“You had me worried, Matt,” she says finally, voice level but warning. “Disappearing like you did.”

Matt shakes his head.

“Not for that.”

“No?” Claire asks incredulously.

“For—” He makes himself say it. “For what I did last time. Pushing you into a sexual situation like that—that was…”

“You didn’t push me into anything,” Claire says. “But the way you just ran out on me, that bothered me.”

Matt doesn’t say anything.

“What happened, Matt?” she asks.

He stares uselessly. Claire sighs.

“Can I come in?” she says quietly.

Matt nods and steps back to let her in. He closes the door behind her but doesn’t let go of it yet.

Claire turns to him with her back to the kitchen and stands in her spot looking at him. Matt has an absurd impulse to offer her tea. But in the end he just stays where he is.

Claire bites her lip.

“If,” she starts. “If I told you a man… attacked me on my way from the night shift, would you judge me for not fighting hard enough?” Heart freezes in his chest.

“Claire, did something…”

“I’m fine, Matt,” she says quickly. “Nothing happened. But if it did, would you think it was my fault?” she presses.

Matt frowns.

“Of course not.”

“Why?” she inquires.

“Because you didn’t ask for being assaulted,” Matt says, still frowning. “The fault lies solely on the man who hurt you.”

“Then why won’t you extend the same compassion to yourself?” Claire asks in a soft voice.

Matt turns away from her sharply, making an aborted pace round the living room.

“Claire, _God_ —I know what you’re thinking and I don’t know why, but it’s wrong, okay? You’re wrong.”

Claire hugs her elbows. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s not what you think,” he snaps.

“You don’t have to be so cryptic about it,” Claire says.

“You know, Claire, I don’t think I gotta explain myself to you,” he says in a sardonic conversational tone. “With—not with this.”

“Okay.” Claire bobs her head, conceding. “Okay, you’re right—you’re right, Matt, you don’t have to talk to me about this if you don’t want to.” She tugs on her lip worryingly. “But I think you should talk to someone.”

“Oh, please—”

“I mean it, from the bottom of my heart, out of concern,” Claire says, emphasis on every word. “Something clearly happened, I’m not—I’m not going to presume, but…” She exhales.

“Why are you so against asking for help?”

“Because I don’t need help,” Matt throws back. “I deal with people who need help every day and trust me, I’m not it.”

“I do, too, you know,” Claire counters. “And I get. You’re the one people come to for help, you’re supposed to be their rock, trust me, I’ve been there. But you’re doing them no favors by not taking care of yourself when you need to.”

“I’m doing okay by myself,” Matt says defensively. “I’m not seeing a shrink, Claire.”

“No _one_ can get by on their own,” Claire says to him. “You think of yourself as strong and self-reliant and you want to think you can carry this, but this mentality is a trap. And I am speaking only from learning this the hard way. Okay? I _get_ it.”

It hangs between them for a longer moment. It feels like they reached a pat.

“I’ll think about it,” Matt says after some while.

Claire lets out an exhale.

“That’s all I ask.”

She stops nibbling on her mouth. Matt thinks he might offer her that tea after all and it doesn’t feel unnatural this time.

 

*

 

“Are the People ready with their closing statement?” Judge Batzer’s crisp voice rattles around the spaciness of the courtroom.

A cough from the gallery, sheer tights drag, bristling, against itching skin rubbery and damp with sweat; outside, bluebirds are singing, Church bells chime as excited masses of kids spill out the gates, a flurry of families kissing, snaps of commemorative photographs. Communion season. Every May, it takes him by surprise, heart squeezing with this fleeting reminder of cyclic nature of things that you should’ve expected but hadn’t. Somewhere, different kids are sitting through the last batch of exams, a taste of freedom pushing at the back of their teeth. A year, they might sigh. We’ve made it another year.

Porter cuts through the laziness in the air, straightens document briefs in a brisk-business manner. But she’s not immune, not entirely; the ends of her pressed hair curl with humidity, brushing the back of her neck every once in a while. Her foundation runs at the edges with excess sebum and she doesn’t pat it into place with a talc-and-drugstore smelling powder. Even Porter, it seems, allows herself a little remissness.

“Ready, Your Honor,” she says, and it lacks her usual promptness, like a student made to read her half-cocked assignment. But there’s nothing half-cocked about her work; and soon, she stands up ruler-straight, summons iron back in her curt voice, and her ice pick-sharp stilettos jolt Matt out of his languid May haze.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Porter begins, bringing them back to the courtroom and the sobering facts of the matter. “The defense have been trying to convince you that this case is about the defendant’s rape.”

Matt closes, briefly, his eyes, lets out the slightest of exhales. So, back to this.

Cycles.

“It’s not.” Porter takes a moment then, to pierce each Juror with a serious look that escapes him.

“It’s not even a case of excessive use of force,” she carries on. “No one contests that the defendant killed the victim because she was raped. But it’s not a case of excessive use of force, it’s not a case of where do we draw the line on justifiable self-defense,” she takes a sharp breath, “this is a case of whether or not our system legitimizes vigilante vengeance.”

Porter paces herself then, conducting her audience’s attention.

“The defendant was a victim of rape. But the moment she picked up that plunger and beat a man to death, she stopped being a victim and became a victimizer herself.” She stops and starts anew. “Is death a fair punishment for rape? And is the victim, the one most emotionally involved with the crime, the right person to execute that punishment?” she questions. “New York courts say, no.”

It’s all been said before and now she brings it together, ties it with a neat, crisp bow. The Jurors are listening and Matt knows every sentence reaches them when Porter stops and addresses all of them personally.

“The law states she is guilty,” she says plainly. “So you _must_ convict.”

She nods, shortly, to Batzer and takes her seat as if pursued by her own angry rap-tap-tapping heels.

“Defense?” Batzer prompts.

Becky nudges him slightly in the hip. Becky’s next to him. Matt blinks, his eyelids weighed down like half-melted lead. He stands up and the courtroom, the multitude of heartbeats, it circles him, an expectant, hazy presence. He tries to shake his head, holding his chin still as much as he can. He waits for words to come to him.

There’s really one thing he needs to say.

“Is this case about rape?”

The courtroom is silent, regarding, maybe. Grave.

“If Mary wasn’t raped, would anyone of us be here today?” His voice grows in strength and he finds the words come out easily, like they’ve always been there and he only had to reach for them.

“If that man didn’t stalk and rape her, she would have never been in that bathroom to pick up the plunger to beat him with.” It clicks and Matt knows then where he’s going. “But also, if she _was_ in that bathroom, if he had cornered her in there, but instead of raping her he just beat her, just—terrorized and beat her bloody, and _then_ she picked up that same plunger and killed him anyway, would we still be here?”

Matt stops for a considering moment.

“Would the District Attorney Office even indict?” he asks, a low but audible murmur. He takes a breath. “Rape is _everything_ in this case, and others like this one. Why is it that when our regular run-of-the-mill violence crosses into sexual violence we think of it in whole other categories?” He gets quiet, pensive, and it’s not an act. “This past few months I’ve been struggling with that question. Why do we treat differently a woman battered by her husband than if she were beat-up by a robber? Is it because her bruises are poisoned with an undercurrent of sex twisting it into something else, something ugly and unspeakable?”

He takes a beat and thinks, and starts anew.

“Mary Walker did everything right.” He makes a circle around the floor, paced, cane held close to hip and left arm opened wide as he lists out loud. “She was raped by a stranger so there is no blurry consent line here. She was brutalized and raped, vaginally, twice, so she suffered sufficiently by any metric for it to ‘count.’” His lips twist in a darkly arch smile. “She even passes all the background checks – she has a respectable job, working with kids, so she’s not trash or a slut asking for it.” At that, a wave goes through the Jurors bench. His mouth twists again. “But in the end, it still proved not enough.”

“How much does one have to be victimized before they have the right to protect themselves?” Matt asks. “You can shoot a person if they break into your apartment. Hell, you can shoot a person dead if they even cross your lawn,” he adds somewhat humorously. “But the moment you’re raped, the moment someone forces themselves inside you, you’re stripped of your God-granted right to self-defense.”

Matt closes his eyes behind his sunglasses and finds strength to say what’s needed to be said.

“Raped women are second-class victims, pushed to the fringes, boxed away and abandoned by the system.” He grows quietly reverent, whispering. “Don’t let it happen.”

He traverses another, tighter circle and comes directly to face the jury.

“You have the power, every one of you, today, to look Mary in the eye and say, you being raped, it _matters_. Rape is reason enough to defend yourself.” All heartbeats, they beat to the rhythm of his voice. “The choice is yours.”

 

He focuses on the hands intertwined between his knees; each finger shakes with a small tremor, the bones and flesh and skin vibrating against one another, and it’s an odd sweet melody. He centers on his fingers, he tunes to the air rolling inside his ribcage and rolling out. He feels.

“It was a good speech,” Becky says to him quietly. Matt closes his eyes, acknowledging her words with a slightest tilt of head.

“It was heartfelt,” Becky says.

“Will it take much longer,” Mary asks.

At that moment, as if prompted, the doors to the courtroom open. Mary stands up. Matt blinks. C’mon, Matty, up you go.

 _Here goes nothing_ , Becky murmurs.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The forewoman stands up in the breathless quiet fallen between them all.

“We have, Your Honor.”

The envelope transfers hands. Batzer opens it briefly and folds it back.

“On the charge of murder in the second degree, how do you find the defendant?”

“We find the defendant,” she pauses, “ _not_ guilty.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Becky exhales.

Batzer clanks her gavel lightly.

“Very well; the jury is thanked and excused. Ms. Walker, you’re free to go.” Judge brings down the gavel. “Court is adjourned.”

Becky turns to Mary.

“It’s over now. You can finally put this behind you, for good.” She squeezes Mary’s hands in hers. “It’s over.”

Ann Walker bursts into tears in the gallery. She leans over the divider and clasps her daughter around her arms, even as the bailiff’s attempting to uncuff her wrists clumsily, _Ma’am, please, Ma’am_. Mary just stands there blankly, all through her mother’s sobs, Becky’s hands still on hers, Ann’s arms tangled around her, the bailiff’s, as seemingly the whole world wants a piece of her to touch. She could be bored, or if something’s happening inside, her body clamps down on it; and then she says, “ _Mom_ ,” quietly, her voice almost-breaking on the word. And Matt realizes she’s just a girl, just a girl caught in something too big and awful to comprehend. She’s not an unfeeling vessel, not a wolf creeping in sheep’s clothing, harboring some dark secret behind her timid façade. She’s nothing that Matt’s imagination has twisted her into, when he cared to imagine. And had he really seen her, Mary, not his client, not the perfect victim, not the crude caricature, _Mary_? Did he ever have any real compassion toward her? He needed her to be soulless, just like he needed Ringer faceless. But Mary doesn’t hold back for an apology from him; and why would she? He was just a lawyer to her, too, just as nameless. What are we to one another? – only what we need each other to be, nothing more, nothing less.

Becky lets go of her. She leaves Mary to her mother, to the relief and their private grief, and slowly shakes her head, as if it’s only sinking in.

“That was…” Becky says. “A case.”

“Yeah,” Matt agrees, a breathy chuckle.

“Good first case experience?” Becky adds wryly.

“You were great,” Matt tells her in earnest.

Porter’s sharp heels drop then on the floor and walk over to their table.

“Well, best woman won,” Porter says. She extends an open palm toward Becky.

Becky takes it and gives it a short handshake.

“I am not looking forward to facing you in court again,” Becky says.

Porter laughs, full-mouthed and honest.

“Be seeing you, Rebecca,” she says.

Becky looks at him.

“We won,” she says.

 

*

 

Sterile gauze and disposable scrubs in the air, so stifling, as if someone shoved a balled-up gown in his mouth. At the last moment he almost chickens out. He hates waiting. Hates waiting rooms, with their sporadic coughs, and collective dumb listlessness, and the long minutes during which he can come up with so many ways to spin and overthink this. Matt wishes he could play with a phone, or something. Damn wandering mind. He doesn’t like headphones in his ears, they mess with his spatial awareness. He just wishes he had something to do.

Dr. Leonard Samson, PhD.

He doesn’t actually see the brass nameplate on the door, but being there in his office, waiting around for that dreaded _the doctor will see you now_ to come, it makes it all too real. Like it’s happening, which. He supposed it is.

The desk girl skids her chair on the linoleum floor and Matt jerks spasmodically. He wants not to be here.

 

“You brought me flowers,” Karen says, her voice trembling a little at the end, in her special way that never fails to tug at the strings of his heart.

“Madonna Lily,” Matt says unnecessarily. “I thought—it goes with your perfume.”

Karen takes the flowers from him with careful hands.

“That’s… that’s oddly sweet of you, Matt,” she says, putting on her desk. Papers crinkle, take-away cup, old coffee, shuffles to the side.

She straightens up, wiping her palms on her hips sheepishly, not sure where to put them. Skin on jeans. He’s never known her to wear pants before.

“Sorry, my work desk is a mess.”

“That’s alright,” Matt says easily. “Not like I can tell any different.”

“Right, uh—sorry.” Karen lets out a nervous burst of laughter and Matt laughs with her.

They stand around, their silence awkward but not unamiable.

“Vase,” Karen prompts, and they both jump to action. Matt looks around, as if it can be of any use. He can’t smell a _vase_.

“Uh, I don’t think we keep a vase around the office but there should be some glasses we can use in the kitchenette,” Karen says. She does a weird back and forth, like she’s not sure who should go first. “Uh…”

“Right,” Matt says, and steps out of her office, and then stands aside like a dumbass because he doesn’t know where the kitchenette is. Karen leads him down the corridor, along the line of cubicles; Ellison mutters _Murdock_ when they pass him and Matt nods back to him. He follows Karen’s summery scent, lilies and perfume, he was right, they go together; he thinks Dior. The smell mingles with the faint whiff of her jeans and it’s dissonant but oddly endearing. Smells like home, maybe.

Karen rummages through the kitchen cabinets as Matt leans against the countertop. Faucet runs and cuts off, a clink of glass set on the laminate. Flowers rustle, stems pierce the water.

They settle into silence once more. Karen worries absent-mindedly on the petals; nails scraping lightly.

“Karen,” Matt pipes up.

“Why the flowers?” Karen says in a quiet voice, not raising her face. Her chin brushes her neckline from time to time and the ends of her loose hair break against her clavicles.

“I’ve been… I’ve been kind of an asshole to you, frankly, these last couple months.” Matt licks his lips.

Karen jerks up her face.

“Yeah, you were,” Karen agrees. “Not just to me, you know,” she says meaningfully. “I’m not your oldest friend you’ve been avoiding for months. But.” Her voice lingers. “Apology accepted.”

“I, uh… Really?” Matt asks a little incredulously.          

Karen shrugs, wrapping her arms around herself, but the tight tension dissipates from her shoulders.

“I don’t hold a grudge, Matt.” A shrug again. “You could say sorry, though,” she points out.

Matt nods, sways back on his heels, propping his palms on the sharp angles of his hips.

“I am sorry, Karen,” he says seriously.

Karen takes a small inhale and drops one of her arms.

“Yeah, okay.”

The quiet washes over them again but it doesn’t feel like an absence. After a while, something seems to stir in Karen; Matt waits till she comes to it.

“I called,” she picks up at last. “I called, and I… called and.” She takes a sharp breath. “Last time I saw you, you were gearing up to go against Ringer with _no_ backup and then this—radio silence from you…”

“I’m sorry,” Matt interjects.

Karen nods her chin jerkily.

“No, I know.” She lets out a sigh, a weight of her heavy lungs. “Did you at least get him?” she asks.

Matt hesitates.

“I… He’s done.” He averts his face, downcast, even though Karen can’t see his eyes under the sunglasses anyway. “FBI got him. I was…” _I was just there to see._ He wets his lips. “I was there. Saw it go down.”

Karen’s silence is regarding. Matt should know better than to think he could hide from her.

“And how does that sit with you?” she asks carefully. “That you weren’t the one who… who got this bastard at last. I know I would be—” She laughs bitterly, breathless.

Matt, cognizant of his body’s weight and ticks, lets his shoulders melt.

“I’m…” No bullshit. “I’m coping,” he says honestly. “At first, it was…” He shakes his head. “I talked to him. I—in the end, I faced him. I have that, at least.” His mouth echoes _at least_ voicelessly.

Karen reaches out and touches his elbow gently. She drops her hand.

“Well, I doubt we’ll be reading about it in the papers,” she says sardonically. Matt releases his breath. “Big FBI raid and not even a whisper of it in the media. _God_ , how did they even pull it off. _Why_?” she asks, more addressing the air than anything. “Why the secrecy?”

“He was powered,” Matt says.

Karen stills.

“What?” she asks. Matt jerks his head yes.

“He was, he was a shifter or—something, you were right about the superhero connection.  He had powers. That’s how he was able to evade justice for so long.”

“So he targeted people connected to those like him?” Karen says, her barely restrained journalist voice. “To—what, hurt them somehow?”

“Maybe he was seeking some kind of a link to his, his origin, maybe even subconsciously. Maybe—” Maybe he was trying to get a superhero’s attention. He stops himself.

“Did he resent his powers?” Karen throws it out there, a suggestion.

Matt shakes his head slowly.

“I didn’t get that impression from him. Rather, he—he felt tuned to his powers, almost _too_ tuned. His powers were him.” _I’m what you think of late at night when you think of rape._ He shivers. “Maybe he felt alienated from the rest of the humanity. Ringer, he—he’s something past human. Something else.”

Karen seems to be mulling this over, mind running ideas.

“I need to talk with Ellison,” she says.

Matt takes a step back.

“Why?” he asks warily.

Karen shakes herself out of her head.

“If Ringer was Hell’s Kitchen’s proper super-powered villain…” She turns her face up at him, emanating strange, almost magnetic energy. “Can’t you see it? This is huge.” She looks away, spinning ideas again. “I could—I could name you as my anonymous source, I wouldn’t have to disclose your identity not even to Ellison, and if I can collaborate even a portion of the facts—He has to let me write the piece.”

“Wait, back up.” Matt actually raises his palms. “You can’t write this.”

“The city has the right to know,” Karen says, but she’s not even arguing with him, her mind is made-up.

“No, you _can’t_ write this, because the only person who could provide you with the information about Ringer’s superpowers is Daredevil.”

“Right, that’s why you’ll be my anonymous—”

“No, you’re not listening,” Matt speaks over her. “I know about his powers because an _FBI_ _agent_ told me, an agent that could lose their job if this came out.” That shuts Karen’s mouth for a moment. “And more importantly, if you write an article on Ringer, the Feds _will_ want to know how you obtained this intel and they will come after you and from you, they’ll follow the breadcrumb trail straight to Daredevil.” Karen doesn’t say anything for a while.

“So that’s it?” she says. “We just—don’t say anything? Forget Ringer, the people and the families of his victims deserve to know he’s not out there anymore. Hell, we deserve some closure.”

Matt stretches his lips helplessly. Yeah. A closure.

“Sometimes you don’t get one,” he says.

Karen shakes her head.

“That’s not right,” she mutters. “At least, at least I should write that he’s been caught. I don’t have to mention who he is. Just that he’s taken off the streets.”

Matt lets out the air from his chest. This is a battle he can’t win, he knows.

“A suspect was apprehended in a warehouse raid,” he says. “Down on the pier by the Hudson. That’s all you write.”

“I can do that,” Karen concedes. “Hm, too bad there’s no photos of the raid.”

“Should attract less attention though,” Matt points out. “And moderate attention is what we want here.”

Karen breathes out a small laugh; _yeah, okay_.

“Maybe I’ll take Glori to the docks,” she says. “Snap a few pictures of warehouses.”

“Romantic,” Matt comments. Karen snorts.

“Ha.”

“Speaking of,” she says, making a move like she’s searching for something. “I promised her lunch. You can tag along if you want—” Her voice curls at the edges, like when she’s being polite.

“Thanks,” Matt says. “I know when I’d be a third wheel.”

They leave the kitchenette; Matt first, then Karen, lilies in hand.

Karen stops by one of the cubicles and calls out, “Glo.”

A shadow separates from the row of bent heads. A cloud of hair, thick, healthy willow-wisps, rustle effusing footprint-scent. Strawberry lotion and, unusually, saffron. A red smell. Smell of the sun.

“Hiah, gal,” Glorianna says. She leans in and gives Karen a peck. On the lips?

“Hi, Matt,” she adds after a beat, flat.

Matt nods to her and tries on a smile.

Karen looks between them. “Uh… we’re pretty much done here, I think?” she phrases it like a question. “I’m ready to go.”

“With that?” Glori indicates the flower vase, still in Karen’s hand.

Karen laughs and combs a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Right. Let me leave it on the desk first.”

“I’ll get my coat,” Glorianna puts in and slides past Matt, patting him briskly on the arm.

“Uh…” Karen motions a vague pointing gesture. “Office?”

When they step into her office again, it hits Matt how much the room smells like _her_. There’s no whiff of whiskey in the air, not even a trace of it with her coffee. It fills him with something strangely akin to hope.

“So…” Matt picks up. “So you,” now he makes a vague gesture at where they left Glori, “you’re…” He trails off.

Karen’s cheeks crash with a wall of heat.

“The word you’re looking for is bisexual,” she says drolly.

Matt gives her a sharp nod. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and neither does Karen.

“You and Glori, huh?” he says at last.

“Yeah,” Karen says, her voice going surprisingly soft. “Me and Glori.”

Matt nods again, this time slow, reminiscent.

“That’s good,” he says and finds it’s sincere; no drop of resentment, no envy. He supposes this is how growth feels like. “You deserve to be happy, Karen.”

Karen reaches out and when her hand wraps around his arm, it rests there for a moment.

“So do you, Matt,” she says, and her voice is low, sorrowful, like a sad smile. “I hope you’ll let yourself.”

Matt closes his eyes.

“I’m trying,” he says.

 

“I don’t know how to start,” Matt admits after a moment.

“How about you start with why you’re here?” Dr. Samson says calmly.

“I don’t know why I’m here.” Matt squeezes his hand, exhales. “No, that’s a lie. I’m here because my priest told me he can’t help me and suggested I should see a therapist.” He laughs brittlely. “That’s something, right? If a priest says that God can’t help you, it probably means it’s serious.”

“Help you with what?” Samson’s voice is translucent like water, no judgement and barely an interest.

Matt bites his lip.

“It’s…” Complicated, he thinks, and, complicated doesn’t begin to cover it. He sighs. “Look, I don’t know… I don’t know how to do this. Can we just—” He chuckles, a thin, embarrassed sound. “Can you just ask me about my childhood or something?”

“If that’s what you want.”

The bones of his hand squish when he crushes them in his other fist. No, it’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want this. His brain is empty and spilling with too much sticky mud, and he wishes Samson would just make it easier on him, ask him yes or no questions so he doesn’t have to think. He can’t think in this tiny room, squeezed in that rigid mesh chair. He shifts on his hips.

“I—no,” Matt says. He pauses. “This was a mistake.”

He doesn’t stand from the chair though and Samson stays quiet, waiting for him.

“Why do you think it’s a mistake?” Samson asks finally.

Matt hesitates. _Because unearthing all your weakness to a stranger is not a way to deal with your issues._

“Because I don’t think I’m something to fix.”

He squeezes his eyes. He wishes he could take it back, the words too bare under phycologist’s operating-light gaze.

“Could you elaborate on that?” Samson asks.

Matt shrugs uncomfortably.

“You’re a doctor,” he murmurs. “If I came to you and I was sick, you could help me, right?” Matt frowns, curling his fingernails into the flimsy material of his pants. “But what if my sickness is not something to cure, what if—what if it’s something I was born with, some inherent flaw in my genetic code that just cannot be fixed? What if the sickness is me?”

Samson leans back on his elbows.

“You’re religious,” he remarks.

“Uh, yes,” Matt says.

“Catholic?”

“Born and raised.”

Samson lowers his voice, regarding.

“Don’t you believe that everyone can be saved?”

Matt digs in the fabric. He doesn’t say anything more after that.

“I hope I see you next Thursday,” Samson says to him at the door.

Next week is all the same. The thought not to show occurs to him; occurs to him to forget this whole failed experiment and lose Samson’s number. But come six Thursday Matt’s at the office, sitting in the wait room just like before. He can’t tell himself what compels him to come.

“Tell me about your childhood.”

“I—really?” Matt says.

“Well, you suggested it last time,” Samson points out. “I thought we might just as well cross that one off the list,” he adds with some humor.

“Uh,” Matt says eloquently. He had a childhood. “What do you want to know?”

“You can tell me about your parents.” Matt almost laughs.

“I never knew my mom,” he says after a moment.

“What about your dad?”

“He died.”

“I’m sorry,” Samson says. “How did it happen?”

“Gun violence.” Matt shrugs.

“What was your relationship?”

“He… was my dad,” Matt says. “I—I don’t know why…”

“Was he a good father?” Samson interjects.

“Yes.” Matt bites the inside of his lip. “The best.” He shakes his head. “I—this is not doing much for me.”

“We can talk about something else,” Samson suggests lightly. “Tell me about your mood, how you’ve been in the week since our last session?”

What was last week?

“Fine.” Matt searches in his mind for the closest memorable event and has to go two weeks back. “I won a case.”

“That’s a pretty big deal,” Samson comments.

“Yeah, it was mostly my partner.”

“What was the case?”

“Is this what we’ll be doing?” Matt interrupts, somewhat impatiently. “Make small talk for fifty minutes?”

“Well, that depends entirely on you,” Samson says.

Matt lets out a prolonged exhale.

Samson asks him questions. Idle questions, “tell me about this” and “how so” and “could you explain what you mean.” And he prods. He asks Matt how is he and Matt doesn’t know what to say each time.

“What do _you_ think?” Matt quips, mouth pulled around a rueful smile.

“I think you seem sad,” Samson says.

The corners of Matt’s smile tremble. It takes some effort to keep it on.

It’s such an inconsequential thing, right, _sad_ , such a silly remark, to be the thing to shake him. He seems _sad_.

“I think that something happened in your life that you’ve been carrying inside and it causes you pain that you can’t articulate,” Samson carries on gently. “But I can only guess, unless you feel like you can tell me.”

Matt licks the inside of his dry mouth. He takes a moment to answer that.

“I was…” he cuts himself off. “That’s just the thing,” Matt says bitterly and it’s all hurt really. “I  _don’t know_ if I was raped.” He closes his eyes, swallows a burning guilt. How dare you, he thinks, how dare you even say such a blasphemous thing out loud.

It was a presumption. A terrible presumption, to come here and expect the good doctor to listen to him unearth his vile, unthinkable delusions and not recoil in disgust. He doesn’t have the right to this _pain_.

“What happened to you then?” Samson asks.

Matt makes a double take.

“I…” he trails off. “I didn’t expect you to say that,” he says because he’s caught off-guard.

“What did you expect me to say?”

“I… I don’t know.” He laughs awkwardly, an awful guffawing sound; he cuts it out. “I guess… if I’m not sure then it can’t be right, right?” He tries to laugh again. His throat muscles won’t obey him.

“Why?” Samson asks, and it’s a voice of a lecturer politely inquiring. Matt frowns his forehead.

“Because…” he says. “I don’t know, if you’re raped… When a woman is raped, she just knows it, right? Rape is not—a misunderstanding, it’s not _sex_. She knows when she’s been violated.”

“Why do you say that,” Samson says, “‘a woman’?”

Matt just stares sightlessly.

“Because. Because women are raped.”

“Do you think men can’t be raped?”

“No—I.” He interrupts himself. “Men can get raped, it’s just… It’s complicated.”

Samson leans back in his chair and clicks off his pen.

“You say that,” he comments, crossing his arms in a thoughtful posture. “‘Complicated,’ you say that a lot.” Matt nods, not sure if it warrants an acknowledgement. “I wonder, is it? Is it really?” Samson tilts his head; hair brushes on the back of his neck and the edge of shirt collar. He wears it long, in a ponytail. “Or you’re just unsure of yourself? Maybe you lack the words to explain it?”

Matt’s eyelashes fall half-lidded and he can’t help a low chuckle.

“I’m a lawyer,” he says. He thinks it’s the most biographical information he volunteered unprompted in their sessions. “Words are supposed to be my forte.”

“Does it bother you that you’re struggling with them now?” Samson asks.

Matt swallows an annoyed burn in his throat.

“Yeah, it bothers me,” he bites back and then consciously exhales the residue of his anger. “I… What I meant was. Yes, a man can be raped but. It’s women who are mostly affected by it. It’s women who are blamed and shamed for it, who have to live in a constant fear of being sexually victimized. _Women_ get raped and _a_ man gets raped.” He shakes his head. “But men don’t get raped. They rape.”

Samson stays silent.

Matt takes a breath. “Like I said, I’m a lawyer. I spend a lot of time in criminal court, and I see it every day. Rape is not part of male consciousness, not like it is in women.” He lowers his face, picking on a stubborn torn cuticle. “So yeah, it feels wrong, for me to—appropriate this experience that is not mine, and when I’m not even sure.”

Matt closes his mouth. He bites on the inside of his mouth.

Samson uncrosses his arms and leans forward to him.

“The way I understand it,” he says finally, “is that you feel like you don’t deserve to use this word for what happened to you, because you don’t think it compares to that terrible violence so many women suffer through.”

“I don’t,” Matt says.

“So how would you describe what happened to you?” Samson says, pressing but gentle. Matt exhales.

“I was—pushed down,” he says, difficult. “I—was on the ground and—” He pinches his eyes. “He was—he was in—in my—m-mouth and—” his voice thins, goes out on him. Matt squeezes his knuckle, hard.

He thinks about Mary’s impassive voice _, he shoved this wooden thing in me and he raped me with it_ , and about Becky’s unapologetic and brittle, _I accepted that, as well as you can I suppose_ , and about countless statements he read bleeding one into the other, and he thinks, I don’t know how they do that.

“What else?” Samson asks, like a doctor asking: what other symptoms have you been experiencing? Well, he supposes that applies.

Matt swallows, hard, because this part is the worst.

“And I liked it,” he whispers.

Samson shifts his weight from one leg to another.

“You know a lot of rape victims get sexually aroused during,” he remarks. “But that doesn’t mean….”

“No, I know, but.” Matt closes his eyes. He could just leave it at this and no one would ever know. He’s at once so grateful he can’t see Samson’s face and desperately wishing he didn’t feel every uptick in his body. “It wasn’t that, I. The idea of it—” He swallows. “I didn’t want it, I don’t think, but—” He forces it through his tight throat. “I _liked_ it. God help me.”

Samson hums and doesn’t offer any judgment. Matt wishes he would just tell him exactly what he thinks about Matt.

“And does it make you feel like you deserved what happened to you?” Samson asks.

His gut drops; he’s been expecting it and it still hits him like a burning-red iron.

“Don’t I?” he says thinly. Samson doesn’t say anything.

Matt swallows down the useless burning bump in his throat. Okay. Okay.

“And I don’t know…” he says, and shakes his head, collects his thoughts and starts anew. On his lap, his hands are shaking and he wraps them into fists until they still. “I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s the only thing I can think about. The other day, I… I attempted to have sex with my friend, and I couldn’t.” He spews a mocking chuckle. “Not because I was having _flashback_ s or I was too _fragile_ , but because… All I could think about was that night and _this wasn’t it_.”

“You haven’t been able to have normal sex since then?” Samson asks and Matt bites through his lip.

“No,” he says quietly. “And I don’t know if it damaged me irreparably or…” He wets his mouth.

“Or?” Samson prompts.

Matt averts his face.

“Or if I was always damaged and just realized that,” he murmurs. “I’ve been… combing, obsessively, through my life, going over every memory I can remember, and… I had sex before, I’ve been in relationships, but… I remember watching things when I was a child and getting excited. I remember being in situations where I wasn’t in control and I… Looking back, it’s always been in me. This desire.” He quietens. “And if it’s always been there…”

“You think you subconsciously wanted to put yourself in situations where you might be raped?”

Matt shakes his head but it’s not a no.

“I… I was drawn, to the darkness. I certainly put myself into situations where I would be close to rape on daily basis. I sought it out, I guess.” Matt folds his glasses in one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. “But how can you want it?” he whispers, tortured. “When you know, when you see all this pain and suffering people go through and when you’re faced with pure evil… how can you want it?”

“Do you think,” Samson suggests gently, “that you wanted to punish yourself?”

Matt swallows. _You deserve to be raped._

“I don’t know,” he says.

“A lot of people fantasize about rape,” Samson says, clasping his hands around his knee. “It can be very titillating. People have always been captivated by the taboo.”

“It’s different,” Matt says.

“How so?”

“Because… if I want this because of what… what happened, then it means it fucked me up somehow. That I’m broken.” His nail splinters. He digs it in his skin harder. “And if I was always like this… then maybe I wanted what I got. Maybe I welcomed it.”

“I disagree,” Samson says. Matt huffs humorously, a little incredulous; he shrugs.

“But I don’t know which one is right.” He wraps his arms around himself. “I don’t know what that makes me.”

“Do you need to know?” Samson asks.

Matt stares.

“What,” he says.

Samson repositions his legs.

“Why do you need to know which came first,” he repeats nonchalantly. “You have those feelings now, does it matter how you came to them?” Matt gapes, stumped.

“I…” he says. He never considered it that way. Samson almost-chuckles, affable.

“Sometimes it’s just as simple as it is.”

He pauses.

“Look, Matt, I can’t tell you whether you were raped or not,” Samson says; his voice is gentle but declarative, not soothing, up-to-point. Matt decides it’s more comforting. “I simply don’t know that.”

“Heh,” Matt exhales, curling the corner of his lip. “Aren’t shrinks supposed to have all the answers?”

“No,” Samson says plainly. “I’m here to listen to you, and guide you through untwisting all those knots you have yourself wrapped into. I’m not here to tell you what your experiences are.” There’s a sad echo of smile in his voice. “But I can tell you this, you’ve been tortured over this thing for a long time and I can see it had a profound impact on you. Now, I don’t know what does this say about the nature of trauma you’ve been through. But,” Dr. Samson carries on. “There is a reason you feel that way and it matters.”

Matt closes his eyes, and something shifts and falls into place. He doesn’t have a name for it; and yet it matters.

 

_Franklin Nelson, Hogarth Chao and Benowitz, leave a message after the tone and I’ll contact you at the earliest convenience._

“It’s me,” Matt says.

 

“What’s on your mind?”

Matt bites the corner of his lip.

“It still won’t go away,” he says. “I’m—I’m trying, I’m—getting help, and I think it makes a difference. It does, but. This… need inside me, it just won’t go away. I’m still like this.”

“It’s a process,” Samson says.

“But at what point am I going to be normal?” Matt says, exasperates—complains really. “What’s the point of all this,” he makes a vague gesture, indicating the office and whatever fragile thing he managed to accomplish here, “if nothing changes?”

“There are some things that are always going to be a work in progress.” Matt pulls on his lips with impatience. He doesn’t need motivational speech wisdom. “Don’t hold out for some magical cure-it-all,” Samson tells him. “It’s not healthy obsessing over the future when you are ‘fixed’. It’s not what therapy is about.”

“So does it mean I’m never going to be rid of these urges?” Matt asks, tortured.

“Maybe,” Samson allows. “But it doesn’t mean you’re failing somehow. Growing is more important than some unattainable ideal of ‘normal’.”

Matt looks away.

“I think I still half-consciously expected there to be this… metric, which you could measure my progress with so you can tell me when I’m cured.” The corner of his mouth twitches bitterly.

Samson hums in mild acknowledgement. “That’s not how people work. You need to understand that and be patient with yourself.”

Matt jerks his head. Yeah, okay.

“Do you think you can do that?” Doc asks.

“I…” Matt exhales. “Can’t say. But—the knots, they…” He makes a sloppy circular motion at his temple. “I think you helped some untangle them.”

“I’m glad,” Samson tells him.

 

Matt chooses the long road home. It’s June and the city is brimming with life. He draws a deep breath – exhaust pipes, trash, sweat of million busy people – and takes it all in.

He thinks about the mosaic of shards that compose him; the wickedness in his heart, the bones he broke and skin he tore trying to set it right. But it’s not his fault, not really. He didn’t choose it. It feels strange saying that; saying that and accepting it as a factual reality. He’s sinned but it’s not his fault. He can stop playing the blame game, and just do his damndest to be better. Just that.

He’s not fixed, not by a stretch of imagination. Maybe he can’t be fixed; life’s never this simple. But right now, in this moment, he’s okay. His city is singing and he’s content. _I’m okay_ , Matt repeats to himself. It’s okay.

I’m going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …and that’s a wrap! Thank you so much for following this weird dark story, and thanks again to **DancingPlague** for being my biggest cheerleader, an invaluable brainstorming partner, and all around the best writing mate I could’ve ever envisioned! I’ve never been so prolific as a writer and it’s in huge part thanks to you.
> 
> And thank you for all your amazing comments – I reread them at least a dozen times and they are my everything. I hope the ending satisfies you. I know a story should stand on its own, but I just wanted to say that I was writing straight from the heart.
> 
> If this made you feel something, consider [ reblogging the fic post on my tumblr ](http://dawittiest.tumblr.com/post/175570549506/recreational-hazards) and/or leaving a couple words of comment. I appreciate it.
> 
> Till next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me forget I’m dead inside etc.


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